


Iconoclasm

by grabmotte



Series: Iconoclasm [1]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode Related, Episode: s01e07 A Rebellious Woman, Episode: s01e08 The Challenge, Episode: s01e09 Knight Takes Queen, Episode: s01e10 Musketeers Don't Die Easily, Episode: s0e06 The Exiles, Established Relationship, Heartbreak, Jealousy, M/M, Office Sex, Oral Sex, Rough Sex, break-up, improper use of office furniture, references to Richelieu's past relationships with Marie and Luca
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-15
Updated: 2017-05-04
Packaged: 2018-10-19 04:52:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 42,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10632609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grabmotte/pseuds/grabmotte
Summary: "Did you," Treville began, his voice so low it sent a shiver down Richelieu's spine, "or did you not, hire a mercenary to assassinate the Queen of France?"The Captain of the King's Musketeers and the First Minister of France. Two very different servants of the same master. From the Queen Mother's regency to the Good Friday massacre in Savoy their relationship has survived a lot. But as their shared vision of a powerful French monarchy faces ever new threats in the form of assassins, old enemies returning, and that greatest sin - regicide - the fabric of what connects them is stretched to a breaking-point.As their loyalties to their King, to their men, and to each other are challenged at every turn, Richelieu and Treville have to decide what part of themselves they are willing to sacrifice in order to make their unusual relationship work.This fic follows the second half of the first series.





	1. Chapter 1

Side by side they watched the Queen Mother leave, neither of them daring to say a word as they listened to her dramatic sobs recede. 

Only when Marie had disappeared from view did Treville speak. 

"You won." If he weren't so tense, he would have been shaking. Even now he didn't dare take his eyes off the exit Marie had disappeared through, just in case she had one other trick up her sleeve. It still felt so unreal to see the Queen Mother walk away defeated. Finally defeated.

At Treville's side, Richelieu stirred, equally unable to look away.

"As much as I hate to, Captain," the Cardinal began, "I must disagree." 

Out of the corner of his eye, Treville saw Richelieu turn to him and smile. " _We_ won."

Treville looked down, but he couldn't hide the answering grin that spread across his face for long. When he looked up again he saw the same elation he felt lighting up Richelieu's pale eyes. The sight made his heart beat faster. 

"A private celebration might be appropriate, wouldn't you agree, Captain?"

Treville didn't know the words to describe just how appropriate he thought that would be. He had to keep himself from hurrying the Cardinal as Richelieu turned with a smirk and lead the way up the stairs to the small office he kept in the Louvre.

It was mercifully empty when they arrived. Treville forced himself to wait for Richelieu to close the door before he grabbed his shoulders and pushed him back against the wall. Taking hold of his face, Treville kissed him hard before Richelieu could make a sound.

Richelieu pulled him closer, placing a firm hand at the back of Treville's head.

Emboldened, Treville pressed forward, pinning Richelieu in place against the wall, making him moan into their kiss. Pulling away just as Richelieu ceded control, Treville started dropping kisses along his jaw until he could reach the sensitive skin of the cardinal's neck with his teeth. Each little nip made Richelieu sigh just like Treville had known he would. The tiny sounds sent shivers down Treville's spine.

"Jean."

Treville bit Richelieu's ear. 

"Jean, I still need to lock the door."

Treville stopped what he was doing at once, although he needed a moment to catch his breath before he could bear to step away. His eyes never strayed from Richelieu as he watched him search his robes for the key, and Treville wanted nothing so much as to thank him for wearing the red-faced robes that accentuated his waist so nicely. 

The key had barely turned in the lock before Treville's hands were on that waist again. Stepping behind Richelieu, he pressed his lips to his neck. He loved the way Richelieu's hair tickled his face as the Cardinal leant back. He loved how soft it was, how thick. Treville breathed in deeply, taking in the sweet scent of the powder Richelieu used to tame his wild curls.

Things hadn't been easy on them in the last few weeks and months. Vadim, Savoy – only a couple of weeks had passed since the Duke's departure and Marie's unexpected return. 

It was as though this year had set out to remind Treville of the worst times of his life. But here they were now, triumphant, and Treville couldn't have asked for a better outcome. The King remained blissfully ignorant of the conspiracy he had so narrowly escaped, and Marie de Medici had been sent running again by the same man who had facilitated her original exile. Treville liked to pretend to be above such pettiness, but a part of him couldn't help but wonder how Marie felt about being thwarted by Richelieu again.

Treville had heard every word that they had spoken before Richelieu had called on him to reveal little Henri's fate to Marie. Just as she had back then, she had thought she could win Richelieu back over to her side.

She had never understood just where Richelieu's loyalties truly lay. 

Treville took the opportunity to nuzzle Richelieu's neck as he wrapped his arms around his waist, delighting in the small noises Richelieu made at the attention he was paying to the skin above his collar. 

"People might see that," Richelieu chided him, squirming in his embrace until they were face to face again, and Treville couldn't help but take a moment to admire Richelieu's flushed cheeks and the way his breathing had quickened. Despite his protests, Richelieu didn't resist when Treville pulled him close and kissed him again. 

"Did she kiss you?" He whispered against Richelieu's lips, feeling him smile as the Cardinal recognised the game they were playing.

"Do you need to know?"

"No," Treville said and kissed him again. 

Marie didn't matter. She mattered as little than Richelieu's mistresses, perhaps even less. At least his mistresses understood who and what they were working for as Richelieu shaped them into his spies at court. But neither they nor Marie truly knew Richelieu.

Marie – a vain, overconfident woman, who had tripped over her own greed – would never see Richelieu as anything other than the power-hungry favourite of the past. She knew he was ruthless and clever and she thought she knew how to play on his vanities, but she didn't understand why he couldn't be bought with money or passion, just as she would never understand that his commitment to serving the King – to serving France – was genuine. She still hadn't understood that his income only mattered to him as a means to an end – much like the passion he had once stirred in King Henri's widow.

For all the things that frequently divided Richelieu and Treville, Marie would never share the things that united them.

Whatever Richelieu had made her believe, or allowed her to believe over the past few days, it had been with her destruction in mind. Again, petty thoughts entered Treville's head that he wold have rejected as shameful under different circumstances. But as Richelieu pressed himself against him, sighing against his lips, Treville could think of no sweeter revenge on the woman who had once imprisoned him for his loyalty to her son. 

Richelieu raked his fingers through his hair, and the feeling of nails against his skin made Treville moan into their kiss. He could feel Richelieu reach around and under his coat to grab his arse through trousers that were becoming much too tight, but it wasn't enough. The clothes needed to go. Breaking away, Treville cast his gaze over the furniture in the small office and nearly despaired for lack of a soft surface. Only the desk caught his eyes. It was the perfect height.

He caught Richelieu's face in one hand to make him look at him as his other hand travelled from Richelieu's hip to his crotch. He could feel Richelieu becoming hard through his robes.

"Did she want you?" he asked, his voice low and hoarse from more than kisses. 

Richelieu smirked, pressing forward against Treville's hand. "You should ask, did she _get_ me?"

With a growl, Treville bent down to grab Richelieu around the waist to hoist him onto his shoulder, grinning at his yelp of surprise. 

"Jean!"

Fortunately, his Cardinal was a slim man. Richelieu clutched at him, laughing shakily and Treville relished the weight of him in his arms and on his back as he walked the short steps across the room and sat Richelieu down onto the empty desk with a grunt. It was almost a shame that there hadn't been anything on the desk he could have swiped to the floor first, but Treville guessed that Richelieu might not have shared his enthusiasm about messing up his office. The arousal he saw in Richelieu's eyes had to be satisfaction enough – for now.

Treville couldn't help his grin at the sound Richelieu made as he hitched up the front of his robes and stopped to admire the bulge stretching Richelieu's breeches. Those needed to go. Sliding his hands under Richelieu he made him push himself off the desk a little so he could hook his fingers into the waist of Richelieu's breeches and tights and pull them down just far enough to reveal his hardening cock. Crouching down in of Richelieu, he let the skirt of his robes fall over his head and went to work on Richelieu's shaft. 

The first lap of Treville's tongue caused Richelieu to twitch. The small sound he made as Treville repeated the caress went straight to the base of Treville's spine. 

Holding on to Richelieu's thighs, Treville leaned forward to lick a long trail from the head to the base of the shaft, enjoying the sigh he drew from Richelieu. Treville could feel him shift on the desk, leaning back on his elbows and jutting his crotch forward to give Treville better access. Letting himself fall to his knees, Treville took advantage of his lowered position to guide Richelieu's balls to his lips with one hand, kissing them lightly, before grazing the sensitive skin with his teeth. He had to hold on to Richelieu's thigh with his other to stop him from bucking.

"Jean!"

Wasting no more time, Treville opened his mouth wide, taking in as much of Richelieu's balls as would fit and teasing them with the flat of his tongue. The sounds Richelieu made as Treville pulled back, now lapping, then sucking at the sensitive skin were delightful, making Treville moan in encouragement. By the time he returned his attention to Richelieu's cock it was fully hard, pressing eagerly against Treville's cheek and begging for his mouth. Treville was delighted to give it the same treatment as Richelieu's balls, placing a few quick, sloppy kisses along its shaft, before guiding its head to his lips with his hands.

He couldn't imagine Marie doing this – allowing herself to serve Richelieu, pleasuring him with her tongue and mouth and allowing herself to enjoy it.

He didn't try to hold Richelieu down again as he swallowed his cock. His eagerness made him move too fast – he almost gagged as Richelieu hit the back of his throat, making his eyes water briefly. But all he needed to do was to change the angle, retreating slightly, not bothering to sheathe his teeth as he slowly pulled himself off him, knowing only too well what this would do to Richelieu. 

Treville could feel the weight of Richelieu's hand on his head as he groaned, but the shroud of his robes prevented him from finding a good hold.

"You bastard—"

Treville smiled around the head of Richelieu's cock before he took him in deeper again, reacquainting himself with the taste of him, the weight of him on his tongue, the way Richelieu sucked in his breath as Treville sat back on his heels and sucked him hard. He now wished he hadn't covered himself with Richelieu's skirts. He wished he could see him. He wished he could look at his flushed face, see him panting. 

It seemed they were in agreement, as Richelieu finally ripped his robes out of the way. Treville blinked in the light, and there it was again, the sting of nails against his scalp as Richelieu grabbed his hair and pulled him forward. Treville could feel his own smallclothes become much too tight as he moaned around Richelieu, trying to take in as much of him as possible. It wasn't enough. 

Richelieu was half-sitting, half-standing now on trembling legs and whimpering because he still wasn't in a position to thrust. 

It was time to end the torture. Taking hold of the hand in his hair, Treville made Richelieu let go. The forlorn sound he made as Treville let him slip out his mouth went straight to Treville's cock.

 _I have done this_ , he thought as he pulled himself to his feet and saw Richelieu half-collapsed against the desk, face red, eyes half-lidded and unfocused. The great Cardinal, the power behind the throne of France was begging to be touched, and Treville had done this to him just with his mouth. 

Unable to help himself Treville pulled Richelieu into an open-mouthed kiss, giving him a taste of himself, thinking that it would be a sin not to share it.

"Don't you dare stop now," Richelieu panted as they separated.

Richelieu didn't have to worry about that. Treville could hear his breath hitch as he pinned him against the desk, trapping his stiff erection between them. Leaning forward until his lips touched Richelieu's ear he asked, "can't you feel me?" Richelieu whimpered in reply.

"Did she undress you?" 

It wasn't possible for Richelieu to flush any deeper, but his eyes flashed. This time he had no comeback, but Treville could see the question in his eyes. 

"I won't," he said, before lifting Richelieu back onto the desk, his arse bare against the dark wood.

Through his flush a challenging look stole itself onto Richelieu's face. "You like my robes that much?" 

A man shouldn't be allowed to be so cocky after moaning himself hoarse.

In reply, Treville pulled the skirts of said robes away, giving him a good view of Richelieu's hard cock proudly standing to attention.

"Wait!" Even after moaning himself hoarse Richelieu still carried a tone of command. He caught Treville's hands before he could take hold of him again. 

Treville watched in fascination as Richelieu slipped off the desk, then bent over it, looking back with hungry eyes to say, "You want me like this. On my desk."

Treville could feel his trousers become uncomfortably tight as Richelieu reached back and pulled his robes up, exposing himself for Treville, to anyone who might walk in… the great cardinal, draped across the desk in such a vulnerable position – legs hanging over the side, still half-dressed in black breeches and tights that had fallen to his knees, exposing his cheeks and hole. 

The sight sent another wave of heat through Treville's body. The stark contrast of Richelieu's pale cheeks and thighs to the black of his robes on the mahogany desk made him look almost fragile.

The desire to make Richelieu squirm and beg until he was ready to take all Treville wanted to give him was overwhelming in that moment, and Treville had to wonder why he hadn't turned to ash yet for his lust. 

"I know you like that," Richelieu breathed, "but don't just stand there and look."

Treville couldn't keep Richelieu waiting any longer. Parting his cheeks with his hands non-too-gently, Treville elicited an appreciative noise from Richelieu before crouching down to blow onto his hole just to hear that superhuman confidence shake as Richelieu yelped. 

"Jean!"

"Her Majesty didn't do that either?"

Grinning again, Treville kissed the white skin in front of him. 

It had been a while since Richelieu had been thoroughly ravished and apparently the cardinal felt the lack just as keenly as Treville did.

Richelieu gasped at the first touch to his hole. Just the tip of Treville's finger – at first. Then he pushed in, slowly, knuckle by knuckle, curling his finger, searching for the right spot – making Richelieu squirm on the desk, holding on to its edge as he gasped. Treville loved every sound Richelieu made as he pushed his hips back for more. He so loved being stretched, he didn't even need any oil to enjoy himself. When Treville shoved in a second finger, he had to put a hand on Richelieu's lower back to stop him from arching off the desk as he stroked him, stretching him until he moaned.

"You savage," Richelieu gasped. Treville could hear him open a drawer at his end of the desk, but even as he rummaged through he didn't stop fucking himself on Treville's fingers. Only two fingers and he was already a mess. Treville could bring him off like this, using just his fingers, but he knew Richelieu had something else in mind.

"Take it." Richelieu's voice trembled as much as his hand as he passed Treville the small flask of oil. The clouded look that had appeared on his face did things to Treville's cock. To have Richelieu expose himself like this – trembling and blatant in his need – Treville couldn't wait much longer. 

Positioning himself between Richelieu's naked thighs, he quickly removed his belt, taking himself in hand as he let his trousers drop. Already hard, he let his erection slide between Richelieu's cheeks, relishing the tiny sounds it drew from him. 

Treville would have loved to have Richelieu oil him up, but he didn't want him to move for anything in the world. There was no greater sight than Richelieu draped over his own desk, still dressed from the waist up in his tight-fitting robes, his arse exposed, stretched and ready for Treville's cock.

Richelieu tilted his head, his face a canvas for his desire, trying to see what he was doing. Treville regretted that he couldn't draw a picture for him. He looked delightful, the heat on his face a stark contrast to his pale thighs. For a moment Treville thought of the mirrored ceiling in one of the Louvre's state rooms, and if he hadn't already been hot from desire he might have blushed. Those were the _King's_ apartments – but that didn't make the thought lose any of its appeal. 

The cool sensation of the oil against his hot flesh as he prepared himself made Treville moan. He couldn't wait to take Richelieu as he deserved, but there was just one more thing to take care of. In his hurry to take off his coat, he almost ripped off the buttons. Richelieu looked back at him in surprise as Treville lifted his hips and shoved the bunched up coat under them, between him and the hard desk.

"You're going to need it, unless you want a collection of bruises to remember this encounter."

Richelieu closed his eyes in anticipation, squirming again as Treville dripped the rest of the oil onto his hole, slicking him up with his fingers. He didn't need any more preparation before Treville spread his cheeks, positioning the head of his cock at his entrance and pushing in, slowly, _slowly_ stretching him, making Richelieu take all of him like the dutiful servant of France that he was. 

Placing one hand at Richelieu's hip and another beside him on the desk he leaned over Richelieu's back until he was fully sheathed and could make out the fine patterns in Richelieu's hitched up robes. Black as night – black as his soul some might say. Treville's fine, blessed cardinal. His _fine, needy cardinal_ who was so tight around him.

Treville held himself back, thrusting gently, until Richelieu caught his rhythm, tightening and relaxing with each movement. The sound Richelieu made as Treville started to move faster sent shivers down his spine. Another thing Marie would never share.

Already Richelieu was panting with every thrust, but Treville knew there was more to be had. Tightening his hold on Richelieu's hip, Treville adjusted the angle at which he plunged into him until he hit the spot that made Richelieu cry out – and again. Each thrust made Treville go in deeper and hard enough that Richelieu's cheeks shook with the force of it. 

Richelieu must have been very grateful for the coat underneath his hips and crotch by now. The sound of the locked drawers rattling in tune with Richelieu's delightful moans made the heat pooling at Treville's centre spill in waves.

All thought just vanished as his sensations centred on his cock, on the feeling of being engulfed by this man who was so familiar to him like no other. He could feel Richelieu contract around him in ecstasy as he spilled, the sensation of being filled sending the cardinal over the edge as it invariably did. 

Treville barely managed to catch himself as he collapsed against Richelieu, unable to catch his breath for long moments. Finally, placing a kiss on Richelieu's exposed back, Treville slid to the floor and leaned heavily against the desk, blissfully empty and exhausted. By the time Richelieu followed him, he had tucked himself away again. Treville took that as a sign that there were no means in here to clean themselves up. 

Knowing Richelieu, it wouldn't take the cardinal long to find an opportunity to retreat to the privacy of his palais, but Treville enjoyed the thought that until then – as he took his leave of the King and during the ride back to the Palais Cardinal – he would be able to feel Treville inside him. 

Richelieu groaned lightly as he sat down next to him. As of now, neither of them was in a hurry. "Not the most comfortable piece of furniture to rut on."

Despite himself, Treville couldn't help but grin. Richelieu didn't resist as Treville wrapped an arm around his waist and pulled him closer. He rested his head against Treville's shoulder with a sigh.

"Do you think she's left for good this time?" Treville asked, his voice still somewhat horse.

"With a woman like Marie, only time may tell." Richelieu sounded exactly as sated and tired as Treville felt. 

"At least, I think we bought ourselves a good amount of time. Arming her allies will not have come cheap. As soon as they hear of her defeat they will scatter, with no hope of compensation for the poor Queen Mother."

Treville smiled. Even the vast Medici fortune that had bought her crown would run out eventually, and what allies she had managed to rally wouldn't be too happy about receiving nothing for their troubles now that her hopes of taking the regency had been crushed. 

With a bit of luck, this excursion had been her last. 

"Without her we might not have met."

"I have to disagree." Treville could hear the frown in Richelieu's voice. "The Queen Mother had nothing to do with you being invited to court. King Henri wasn't going to let anybody stop him from meeting the soldier who single-handedly turned a potential loss into a heroic victory."

Not even Richelieu's usual sarcasm could wipe away Treville's smile as he lost himself in the memory. He had been so terrified on that day – his first taste of leading his brothers into battle– but now he could smile about it. Perhaps it was the afterglow.

"I wouldn't have minded if we had met under different circumstances," Richelieu continued, pulling Treville back into the present as he pressed himself against his side. "I could do without being reminded of the assassins."

Yes, it definitely had to be the afterglow of their rutting that had made Treville refer to their first meeting so sentimentally. Richelieu had been away from Paris running errands for his Queen, when they had run into each other. He had always refused to admit that he had been spying for her.  
The young bishop might have died on the road that day, the victim of an ambush, if Treville hadn't happened to come across him on his way to Paris.

He looked at Richelieu resting against him, his hair still matted with sweat, and kissed him on the forehead. That chance meeting had been – what? – a quarter of a century ago now, but it appeared to have set a pattern for their relationship from that day on: Sticking their noses into each other's business, getting shouted at for it, and saving each other on the way.

Treville's expression must have grown all too fond as the cardinal pursed his lips at him.

"What?" 

"It's nothing," Treville said automatically. What was there to say?

Marie had been beaten, the King was safe, and Richelieu was content and resting in Treville's arms. 

There was just one other thing to take care of.

"You destroyed all evidence of the child's true parentage?"

"What documents remain are safe within my vault." Richelieu smirked at him. "I will see to their destruction personally, now that more _pressing_ matters have been dealt with." He paused, solemn again. "No one will ever be able to prove the child's lineage. Not that any of it matters, considering the child's tragic demise."

Treville swallowed, discreetly looking away from Richelieu's face. 

"About that…"

He could _feel_ Richelieu sigh. 

"I _knew_ you were far too unconcerned about that child's death," he snapped. As quickly as that, the peaceful, sated atmosphere they had enjoyed was gone.

"The few people who knew of his existence believe he perished," Treville said. "Marie's own men believe they witnessed his death."

Richelieu sighed again. "What really happened to the boy?" It looked like Richelieu was beginning to settle for resignation as he was probably too exhausted to waste his energy on hot anger. "Where is he?"

Treville licked his lips. He knew Richelieu was only thinking of the threat the child had posed to the stability of the entire realm only a few hours ago. The cardinal had earned himself a reputation for being ruthless precisely because he took his duty to protect the interests of France very seriously, but that didn't mean Treville had to accept that Richelieu couldn't act any other way. Sometimes Richelieu went too far. Sometimes he let himself get carried away by his own fervour, preventing him from seeing alternative solutions to a problem.

It was why Treville hadn't asked the musketeers what exactly they planned on doing with the child as they had ridden to intercept his mother. As long as Richelieu didn't know what had happened to the child, the cardinal was safe from the temptation of doing something monstrous as an unnecessary precaution. 

"My musketeers will personally see to it that the child is never seen in France again. Killing him would be pointless."

"Your musketeers? Is that supposed to reassure me?"

"You said it yourself, even should the Queen Mother tell someone of her grandson, there is no evidence to support his claim to the throne. There is no one left who witnessed his birth apart from Marie."

Richelieu continued to frown but seemed resigned to his fate. "You didn't know that when I told you to bring the child to me. You should have told me what you were planning."

Treville sent him a stern look. "Would you have allowed it?"

"No!" Richelieu snapped, returning Treville's glare. "Because it would have been dangerous."

"And now that Marie believes that her grandson is dead and all remaining evidence of his birth is in your hands?"

Richelieu rolled his eyes at him, but Treville wasn't fooled. He had already figured out that Richelieu was about to give in. "It is still stupidly reckless, but slightly less dangerous."

Still Treville felt no regret, leaning closer again. "And yet here you are, still sitting with me." 

"Only because I may never walk again after what you did to me."

Grinning, Treville pressed his lips to Richelieu's temple, tasting salt. "You seemed to enjoy it." 

Denying it would have been ridiculous and so Richelieu stopped his protests. "You're giving me a headache."

"I'm sorry." Treville kissed him again, running a soothing hand through Richelieu's hair as the cardinal leaned against him.

"Is this treason?" Treville asked. "Denying King Henri's grandson the throne?"

"No," Richelieu replied, but he fell silent for a long moment. "As far as the rest of the world is concerned, Louis is King Henri's eldest trueborn child. Why upset the world for the likes of Marie de Medici and risk another civil war?"

"You will never find me disagreeing with that." Treville still had the scars from the last war Marie and those loyal to her had led against King Louis. 

"Still, if fate hadn't been as cruel to his father, Henri V. would be King of France in a few years."

"And Phillippe's peasant wife would be Queen consort?" Treville had to admit that the idea was ludicrous as Richelieu arched his eyebrows at him.

"If Louis' brother had taken any other path in life, that child would never have been born," Richelieu continued. "The King is whoever God chooses to crown. Even King Henri was called usurper by many when he took the throne. France grew to love him nonetheless."

A wave of melancholy washed over Treville. "Do you believe that?" He took a deep breath, realising he was stepping on thin ice. "That God chose Louis over Philippe?"

"I believe that I need to change into a fresh robe," Richelieu said, apparently choosing to ignore that particular blasphemy. Using Treville's shoulder to prop himself up, he struggled back onto his feet and it turned out that his concerns about never being able to walk again were unfounded. 

Treville was beginning to feel uncomfortably sticky himself. A wise man would have insisted they control themselves until they could retreat to Richelieu's private quarters at the Palais Cardinal, but wisdom, Treville had found, had little to do with their relationship. He couldn't even pretend to be rueful about it.

"And you had better head back to the garrison to clean up and get a new coat before your musketeers arrive at the palace. I believe you ordered them to report to the two of us here once Marie's retinue had left?"

Treville closed his eyes, annoyed at his forgetfulness. He looked somewhat regretfully at the coat that Richelieu handed back to him, wondering if could get away with covering up the stains Richelieu had left on it with his blue musketeer coat.

As Treville pulled himself back to his feet with a groan, he was already mentally preparing himself to ride back to the garrison in his shirt, but before he could leave, Richelieu stopped him. 

"Afterwards we can see about what uses we can find for your other coat."

Despite everything, Treville liked that idea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In all of my "Richelieu lives!" fics I never really got into detail why Richelieu and Treville were still together after the events of the series 1 finale, because it was never the time. This is it. This is the time. 
> 
> This also means you can view this fic as a prequel to "Blessed Are Those Who Mourn" or "The Circle of Traitors", meaning there is going to be a reasonably happy ending – eventually.


	2. Chapter 2

Treville knew that he needed to go slow. The sun had fallen behind the horizon as he had passed the last village, and as the forest around him grew thicker the trees swallowed the remnants of the fading evening light. Driving his horse to break a leg on the uneven forest road in this half-light would not get him closer to his destination. The animal was already skittish, turning its head this way and that, ears pricked.

Treville would be helping no one if he lay fallen at the side of the road with a broken neck.

He was almost there, he told himself. There was no need for haste. Soon the trees would clear out and reveal the narrow path that would take him straight to the monastery. Unfortunately, knowing that did not cut the knot of fear in his stomach that told him this slow trot would never take him where he wanted to be in time.

Despite his better judgement, he made his horse run. Its hooves pounded the dry road as trees and underbrush rushed by, dark shapes reaching into the road. A single jutting root might spell the end of his journey. Days could pass before he was found.

It was madness to risk his life for what ifs. If what he was afraid of were to happen, it would have already happened. The hour of his arrival would change nothing, but still he wouldn't make his horse slow down.

The old monastery finally showed up ahead against the darkening sky as the trees around him receded. Treville had never thought he'd be so relieved to see it. Spurring on his horse to give him all it had left, he galloped down the path only to find the gates closed for the night. 

His horse snorted nervously, its breath steaming, as Treville jumped down. It backed up in alarm when Treville started battering the gate with his gloved fist. 

"Open up! In the name of the King!" His heart hammered in tandem with his knocking as he yelled. They couldn't lock him out. He hadn't braved the night to be turned away.

Finally, a hatch opened in the narrow door cut into the gate to the left of him, and Treville saw a monk peering out. 

"Captain Treville of the King's Musketeers," Treville barked, before the monk could utter a word. "To see the Cardinal."

The monk took a moment to take in Treville's blue cloak. He opened his mouth to speak, but paused when he saw the look in Treville's eyes.

"All travellers are welcome here," he said, although he didn't sound like he believed in it, and moved to open the door.

As the horse was too agitated to follow him through the narrow entrance, Treville left it with the protesting monk and proceeded into the courtyard before he realised that he had no idea where he needed to go. 

"You need to speak to the prior," the monk called after him, struggling with the horse, and Treville took a deep breath. Two more monks were already headed to intercept him. They frowned at him, clearly no more enamoured by the thought of a night-time visitor than the doorkeeper had been.

The lack of enthusiasm was mutual. Few places made Treville feel as unwelcome as monasteries and the monks' sour faces did not inspire him to change his mind. It didn't matter which order they belonged to, all monasteries harboured congregations of men devoted to a system Treville barely understood and felt only a superficial connection to. 

Although he went to mass like any faithful courtier, Catholicism was not the confession he had grown up with and, as he lacked the true devotion that could have driven him to take an interest in the politics of religion, its many facets remained as strange to him as on the first day of his conversion. Not even Richelieu had changed that.

He repeated his name and business and the newcomers repeated that he should see the prior. 

"That won't be necessary, I'm here only for the Cardinal." But even as he said the words Treville could feel his spine prickle. He paused. "Unless the prior has news for me."

When the monks weren't able to guess what news he could possibly mean, Treville's heart settled down again. They wouldn't have reacted this way if the Cardinal had died.

"Please," he said, rubbing the bridge of his nose as he willed his anger to dissipate. He would get nowhere in this strange place without help. "Take me to the cardinal."

The pair of monks exchanged a look that made Treville feel exactly like the intruder that he was, but one of them took pity on him. 

"Please follow me, Captain."

As he followed his guide into the main building Treville tried to lose the tension in his shoulders without much luck. He even threw a rueful look back at the gatekeeper who had finally manage to calm his horse enough to lead it through the narrow door. Hopefully whoever tended to the monastery's stables realised that the animal needed rubbing down. Once Treville was back at the garrison he would have to find a way to coax a double-ration of oats out of Serge without admitting what he had done tonight.

They passed down a series of corridors, occasionally encountering monks who barely spared a glance at their visitor as they continued doing whatever it was monks did in their own monasteries after nightfall. These encounters only heightened Treville's sense that he had made a mistake in coming here. If things had gone well the cardinal deserved a good night's rest and would have no use for him. If things hadn't gone well— 

"The Cardinal is resting," Treville's guide told him, likely to reproach him. Regardless of the man's intent Treville couldn't help but sigh at the news.

_Richelieu was alive._

Treville tried to just nod at the information and keep walking, but it was impossible to hide his relief entirely and he could feel himself smile.

Even in the sparse lamplight he recognised the corridor they were walking and he knew he would remember it for a long time. He remembered sprinting down this same corridor earlier. Ahead of him, Aramis had been carrying a gasping, convulsing cardinal on his back. 

If Treville were alone, he would have shuddered.

_The Cardinal was resting_ , he reminded himself. Perhaps he should have heeded his guide's reproachful tone, but at the moment Treville was helpless against his desire to _see_ Richelieu resting – as opposed to seeing him lie dead.

They stopped upon reaching a chamber in front of which a pair of Red Guards had been posted. Just two seemed an inadequate number. Treville would have to have words with Captain Trudeau at the earliest opportunity. He should have brought a squad of musketeers to accompany him to show the Red Guards how it was done. He should—

At that moment the door to the cardinal's chamber opened to reveal a familiar face.

The only thing worse than monasteries were the brothers in them. Brothers who had been ' _at the seminary_ ' with Richelieu were the worst of them.

It had taken Treville a moment to recognize Father Luca Sistini as the Jesuit blended in so perfectly with the rest of the faithful in this place, with his simple habit and that solemn expression that made him look as though he was eternally contemplating the mysteries of God's universe – or much more mundane church politics. Who could really tell? He had studied with Richelieu. It was unsurprising that he wore the same kinds of masks. 

No wonder the two men had gotten along so well these past few days since the man's arrival – and, as Treville recollected with a dark thought, during those years they had spent together at the seminary in what Treville imagined as cosy unity.

Treville tried to suppress any outward signs of the intense wave of dislike that washed over him at the sight of Sistini's face, followed by a related impulse to duck into the nearest alcove. Unfortunately, such behaviour was unbecoming of the Captain of the King's Musketeers, regardless of how little Treville wanted to talk to the priest, and Sistini had already seen him. The same patronising smile was beginning to spread over the Jesuit's face that Treville had come to associate with priests explaining to their flock that only their salvation depended on their generosity towards the church. It was the kind of smile with which a fox might invite a hen for dinner. 

"Captain," Sistini began. "What a surprise to see you here. Does the King have a message for the Cardinal?"

Treville hated how hard he had to fight not to bristle at Sistini taking him for an errand boy. Had anybody else made that assumption to his face, he would have sent them scuttling with nothing more than a look, but where Sistini was concerned, the masks Treville had adopted to deal with cocky courtiers were failing him. Treville could barely keep his stoic expression, let alone manage the scathing look he had hoped for.

Treville also hated how reverently his guide looked as he nodded at Sistini in greeting before he disappeared again into the labyrinthine hallways of the monastery.

"The Cardinal and I are the King's closest advisors." At least he sounded calm, even though he would have preferred to growl. "I may seek him out whenever there's a need. At my own judgement."

Sistini's smile didn't waver. "I see. You really must be in need of his help to seek him out at such a time. But I understand, Armand does have a unique mind."

"He does." Treville hoped that Sistini would take the venom that had slipped into his voice at hearing someone other than the King address Richelieu as _'Armand' as a hint that he wanted this conversation to be over._

"My visit just now was of a more personal nature. I believe the cardinal mentioned that we read theology together."

"He did." 

"The brothers were so kind to offer me lodgings for the night. While I am here, the least I can do is ensure that my old friend is weathering this unfortunate ordeal."

"I'm sure his Eminence appreciates your concern."

Treville hadn't believed it possible, but Sistini's smile widened. 

"I'm glad to help in whatever way I can." Sistini's expression turned more solemn, but Treville still found it hard to look at. "We're old friends," Sistini continued. "Did he ever speak of his time at the seminary?"

"Don't think he did," Treville replied, trying not to think of the way Richelieu's voice had lit up with uncharacteristic delight and genuine warmth as he had introduced Sistini to the King. He tried not to think of the memories that had come to him unbidden then, of lying together with Richelieu, sated, young, foolish and hearing Richelieu speak of the things he had picked up from his friend at the seminary that hadn't been on the curriculum.

Treville suspected that he understood exactly who Sistini was.

"The Cardinal has suffered greatly in doing the Lord's work." As Sistini went on, he showed no reaction to Treville's dismissal of his time with Richelieu. "He nearly joined the ranks of the martyrs, but the Lord saw it fit to keep him." 

"That had nothing to do with divine intervention," Treville snapped. "My musketeers saved him." Aramis' quick thinking most of all. Without him, neither of them would have cause to stand here and argue.

Despite the blasphemy he had just heard, Sistini's solemn expression remained immobile. "I don't doubt the signs, Captain. There is work left for him here on earth. I am confident His Holiness will call him back to Rome soon, to reward him for this fearless pursuit of the infernal blasphemers who dared to strike out at a cardinal."

Any comment Treville might have made about the infernal nature of the Comtesse and her young friend was driven from his mind by one thought: "Rome? The Cardinal has worked for years without the Vatican's favour, often in direct opposition to the Holy Father's wishes for Spain. What makes you think Richelieu would want to return there?"

That patronising smile returned to Sistini's lips and Treville could feel his heart drop. "I'm afraid I'm not at liberty to share the Vatican's business with outsiders, but it will be good to have him in Rome. I have long wished to work more closely with him again." 

"Is that what you spoke to the Cardinal about?" It occurred to Treville that neither Sistini nor Richelieu had ever explicitly stated why the Jesuit had come to Paris. But then, Richelieu and Treville had spent almost the entire time since Sistini's arrival at odds about the Comtesse.

"You must understand; these matters only concern the church, for now. I'm sure the Cardinal will make an announcement eventually. Now, please excuse me, Captain. I don't intend to hold you up any longer."

Sistini dipped his head in a half-bow before he walked past Treville, not waiting for a reply that the musketeer was too stunned to give.

Treville turned half around, looking after him, dumbfounded by the curious sensation that they needed to continue this conversation he had wished they'd never had.

_Rome_. Richelieu might go to Rome. Surely, Sistini had to be mistaken. More than once, in an unguarded moment, Richelieu had expressed his frustration at the pope's open disapproval of his foreign policy. Just a fortnight ago a note had been published about the consequences that fraternising with protestants had for one's soul. It had clearly been aimed at the alliance with Sweden Richelieu was hoping to ratify. Pope Urban hated the Cardinal for his confrontational attitude towards Spanish, because he posed the greatest obstacle to the Holy Father's dream of a united, Catholic Europe. A dream that would most efficiently be realised by France ceding mastery of Europe to Habsburg rule.

Sistini couldn't have been serious. The pope would never have invited Richelieu to Rome to show him favour.

Despite what dues he owed the church for his remarkably quick rise to power, and despite his continued interest in questions of theology, Richelieu had never made a secret of his opposition to the Holy Father's dream. Although Treville had resigned himself to never truly understanding the religion that Richelieu had devoted so much of his life to, he'd always remained comforted by the fact that Richelieu was never going to put his religion over his duty to the French throne. A strong, thriving kingdom was the goal to which everything else, from the cardinal's life to his faith, was ancillary.

There was nothing the pope could offer him that would persuade him to abandon that goal. So what did Sistini think was so special that it could entice his old friend? His –?

Treville caught a movement out of the corner of his eye and was reminded of the presence of the Red Guards stationed in front of Richelieu's chamber. His thoughts disrupted, he became aware of what an image he must present, standing forlorn and confused in a dark corridor, rendered speechless by Father Sistini. He had to stop his brooding before he made himself look an even worse fool. The musketeers didn't need to hear of the state their captain had been put in by the Jesuit priest. Neither did Armand.

With a start he recalled why he'd come to the monastery in the first place. He cursed himself for having allowed Sistini to distract him for even a moment. Behind those guards, beyond that door, lay Armand in his sickbed. There had been such shock in his eyes as the poison had first constricted his throat – such fright. The image was burned into Treville's mind. When he closed his eyes he could see it, could see Armand reaching for his throat, reaching out for help. He couldn't remember the great cardinal ever having looked so afraid. In his mind, he could still hear him choking.

The guards didn't stop him as he hurried forward, demanding to see Richelieu, and all his thoughts about Rome and Sistini evaporated as soon as he set foot in Richelieu's bedchamber. He almost forgot to close the door behind him.

Owing to the late hour most of the chamber had been swallowed by night, save for the moonlight streaming in from the window opposite the bed, and a number of candlesticks glowing on the nightstand.

Lying on his back on the large bed, the great cardinal didn't look as though he was going anywhere soon. Let alone to Rome. Richelieu was a tall man, taller even than most of Treville's soldiers, but his imposing height was lost between the covers as he lay on his sickbed. The poison had drained what strength his lean body possessed and his skin looked ashen in a way that wasn't entirely due to the cold moonlight falling onto the bed. The sight made Treville arrest his steps.

"Armand?" He kept his voice low. If Richelieu was asleep, he wouldn't dare wake him. Not when he looked so sick and slight and nothing like the great, powerful cardinal who ran the royal court. The shadow of that man seemed impossibly far away, here, where he was dressed in nothing but a simple linen nightshirt with even his hair in disarray. Treville had to resist the urge to rearrange the covers around him. Richelieu grew cold so easily.

The slight upwards movement of Richelieu's lips as he turned his tousled head to greet his visitor made Treville's heart speed up.

"You're awake," he said, crossing the distance between them with a few, quick steps, coming to a halt at the side of the bed.

"Captain," the Cardinal began. "It appears I'm very popular tonight." From all the strain his throat had been subject to this day it was only natural that Richelieu's voice should sound so rough, but it still made the familiar title sound strange to Treville's ears. 

"I came as soon as the king could spare me," Treville said. He told the truth. They had had to remove the king from the scene for his own safety as well as Richelieu's, and Treville had been the one to escort him back to Paris. As the captain of the musketeers his place was by the king's side. There had been no excuse for him to stay and watch over Richelieu's sickbed, and yet, the reminder that Sistini had been here before him stung. 

Treville had been in this very room, watching as Aramis had administered the emetic, and then the duty he'd sworn to the king had bade him leave, while Sistini had been free to take his place.

"How is the King?"

"The King?" What a strange thing to ask after the King, when the King was not the one who had been poisoned. But then Richelieu could well have been aware enough of what had happened around him as he was choking to remember how Louis had begged the sick cardinal not to leave him. Louis had been distraught all the way to Paris. He had refused to leave at first, but unfortunately there was a strict protocol about kings staying in sickrooms while there was a poisoner at large.

"He's as fine as he can be after an attempt on his First Minister's life." 

Richelieu nodded and sank deeper into his pillows. 

"So he feels better than his First Minister I presume." 

"Yes," Treville said, smiling darkly. How like Richelieu to hide in sarcasm. He almost had a musketeer's black humour, but Treville didn't think Richelieu would appreciate it if he told him so. 

"How are you?" Treville asked. Although his spirit seemed recovered, his sickly pallor made Richelieu look his age, a thin man, who had left what little health youth had ever granted him behind a long while ago.

A soft smile tugged at Richelieu's lips that was more in keeping with the image Treville had in his head of the man who made the state run entirely on his fervour. 

"Are you asking for the King? Or for your own comfort?" 

"What do you think?" Treville said before leaning down to kiss Richelieu on the mouth. He couldn't help the relief that rushed through him at finding the lips beneath his so warm and responsive. Once Louis had dismissed him, Treville had immediately made his way back to the monastery, despite the increased risk that impending nightfall meant for horse and rider. Thinking about how he had galloped through the woods, Treville felt his cheeks burn as he realised that his recklessness had to be evident to Richelieu just by his being here.

"How are you?" he repeated, not looking up as he drew up a chair next to the bed to hide his embarrassment.

"It appears I'll live, according to the abbot." Richelieu's words were jovial but as he sat down Treville could see his expression darken. He had almost been killed. "I cannot say I feel like it."

Treville frowned as Richelieu struggled to sit up. Even as he rearranged Richelieu's pillows for him, he couldn't help but feel like he was propping up a ragdoll. 

"I didn't intend to keep you from your rest."

"Don't concern yourself about my rest."

Treville couldn’t help it. Despite their combined efforts, Richelieu ended up lying on the pillows more than he was sitting.

"If things had gone the way my poisoner intended, I would never be awake at all." Treville couldn't help but wince and Richelieu's expression softened. "I feel much improved for your company."

"I should hope so."

Moving a hand to the side of Richelieu's face, Treville made him turn his head just enough for them to kiss again. The pressure of Richelieu's lips, the brief caress of his tongue and the familiar sensation of his skin underneath his fingertips calmed Treville as much now as they excited him at other times. 

"I couldn't stay away," he mumbled as he moved from Richelieu's mouth to drop soft kisses along his jawline, making Richelieu sigh.

When he sat back to study Richelieu's face, Treville imagined that some colour had returned to his cheeks, although it was hard to tell for certain in the sparse light. 

"You frightened us," he admitted, wondering when his own voice had become so rough, feeling light-headed as he took Richelieu's hand. The cardinal's skin was cool and smooth against his and Treville couldn't help the tenderness he felt when Richelieu squeezed back. 

They hardly ever touched like this, holding hands. Usually, the touches they shared outside of their private quarters were confined to quick brushes of fingers, of skin against skin. They never lingered. There were no palms meeting, no fingers intertwining. But here in the dark it didn't feel out of place. It felt right.

"Louis refused to leave your side," Treville continued, stroking the back of Richelieu's hand with his thumb. "We had to drag him back to Paris."

Richelieu smiled again, almost disappearing into the propped up pillows, but it was a dark smile this time. Treville thought it looked rueful.

"I was afraid myself," Richelieu said after a pause. He lifted his head just enough to look down at their intertwined fingers. "I thought I was going to hell."

A choked off noise escaped Treville's throat in lieu of words. He didn't know what to say. Hell didn't feature in his thoughts often. Or heaven. He had lost sight of them along with his childhood faith. 

In the town of his birth every man, woman and child had been protestant. Even once his family had moved to Troisville after his father had bought his title and the land connected to it, Treville had been raised in that tradition. Until their protestant king had accepted the new old faith in exchange for the throne of France. Until Treville's father died and his mother made it clear that her children's status in the world was worth more than their immortal souls by making them convert to Catholicism even while she kept her own faith.

Since the day his mother had forbidden his siblings and him from joining the protestant service of what had been their family pastor, Treville hadn't thought of his religion as anything but another aspect of court politics. If his fiercely protestant mother could risk her children's eternal souls for better prospects at a Catholic court without remorse, Treville doubted that God himself cared which doctrine he followed – if God cared about anything that happened on Earth at all.

Even a quarter of a century after they had first met, Richelieu's loyalty and belief in a confession and a church that so frequently proved so inconvenient to his foreign politics still baffled Treville. He understood taking up a clerical career for all the worldly power it offered, but as a moral compass religion was entirely alien to Treville. But Richelieu took care to keep up with the current theological discourse even in private. When a political decision weighed heavily on him, it was because it conflicted with the cardinal's image of a Catholic worthy of God's love. 

Subsequently, Treville had little comfort to offer to Richelieu with regard for the fate of his soul, since 'God doesn't care,' was not an opinion Richelieu had ever cared to hear from him before.

"All you do, you do for a reason," he said. "For France. There is merit in that."

The terror he saw flash in Richelieu's eyes made him wish he hadn't opened his mouth at all. He picked up Richelieu's hands in both of his, knowing not what else to do, trying not to think about how Sistini would have found the right words to comfort Richelieu in this situation. The priest would have been able to give an entire sermon on how Richelieu's service for the king exalted him like no other, and he would have known the theological discourse to make the cardinal believe it.

Treville had nothing but himself and his clumsy, uneducated tongue. 

He swallowed. "What did Father Sistini say?"

The dark smile was back. "Luca assured me that burning a heretic wouldn't damn my soul."

"Does he really believe what he's saying about the Comtesse? That she's is a witch?"

Richelieu said nothing, but the smile on his face no longer looked so dark. Treville felt a pit of ice form in his stomach. 

"This is all very convenient for you isn't it? Sistini is leading the charge against her, you don't even have to lift a finger to make her into a threat. You only have to pay along."

The smile disappeared. "I have been poisoned. Do you think that's so convenient for me?" 

Treville winced. He could still hear Richelieu's screams in his mind. He certainly hadn't enjoyed the sight of Richelieu fighting for his life and he prayed he would never have to see it again.

He looked down at their hands, thinking of Marie's recent return, of how they had fought her and won – together. He thought of Savoy, of Vadim. None of those encounters had been easy on either of them. But Treville had always known what to do. 

As Treville looked down at Richelieu's hands, he was reminded of how he enjoyed the feeling of those long fingers on his skin, in his hair.

"I know you," he said before his thoughts had a chance to drift away further. 

Richelieu looked at their hands, too, saying nothing. Treville swallowed. This was not why he had come here, but they were going to have this conversation anyway. Richelieu's attempts to make him feel guilty wouldn't make Treville give up on him. 

"I know what this is about."

Richelieu looked up, he was wearing one of his carefully crafted neutral masks. 

Treville did not let it deter him. "You're not a cruel man," he said.

Richelieu glanced away, making a face. "You'll find there are many who would disagree with you."

"They don't know you as I do."

"What am I then, to you who knows me so well?" he asked, giving him a long, unimpressed look. But Treville thought there was curiosity in his gaze as well.

"A practical man."

Richelieu fell silent, his face momentarily blank as though he had to think about that assessment.

"Ninon is no witch and you know it," Treville continued. "You didn't put her on trial to defend the faith or to protect those girls. You need her money. This entire affair presented you with an opportunity to take it and so you seized it."

Richelieu's mask didn't drop, but he shifted under the covers. "Whatever happens to her, her reputation is in shambles now. It's too late for regret."

Treville stopped. There was one other appeal he could make and Richelieu had delivered it to him all by himself. "What about you?" New fervour rose within him with the rate of his heartbeat. "Is it too late for you?"

Richelieu snorted at the idea, which made him cough. Treville wrapped an arm around him to help him sit straighter before he could think better of it. 

"My reputation is as needs to be," Richelieu said, once he had settled back into the pillows, his voice as icy as the pit in Treville's stomach. 

"That's not what I meant." Treville said, withdrawing his arm and dropping his hands into his lap. He knew exactly why Richelieu did nothing to combat the popular image of him as ruthless and cold-hearted. The relationship between fear and admiration was a powerful tool that Treville had himself come to know well in his career, except it often appeared to him that Richelieu had given up on the admiration part of the balance entirely all too quickly.

"If not for your reputation, why don't you spare her for your soul if hell troubles you so much?" 

"Are you an expert on the spiritual now?"

"No." _Unlike Sistini_. Treville swallowed the words down, immediately regretting having taking a gamble on a subject he knew nothing about. "Let her publicly make a sizeable donation to cleanse her soul from the devil's influence if you must, and then send her back to her estate until this affair has blown over."

"She'd never consent. It'd mean confessing to the charges against her."

"What is your alternative? Keeping her imprisoned until she dies or confesses so you can kill her?"

Richelieu made a show of sighing before leaning back into his pillow. "Why must you start on this?" 

"Because killing her is unnecessary!"

Richelieu sluggishly reached for Treville's hand, there was not much strength behind his movements – but Treville stood up, quickly finding that looking down at Richelieu in his bed did not inspire a new perspective on their argument. Richelieu still looked underdressed and pale, and he was still stubborn. 

"What do you gain from her death that you can't get from her alive?"

Richelieu glanced up at him, his eyes tired. "Please sit down."

But Treville was too agitated to sit. If he sat, his heart might leap out of his mouth as he tried to make Richelieu listen.

"You don't kill without reason and Ninon's just another noblewoman who runs a reading salon. She merely is more arrogant about it than most. She's not a threat."

"She tried to kill me!" 

The shout caught Treville off-guard. He watched as Richelieu coughed himself into another fit and his prior frustration vanished without a trace. Not knowing what else to do, he supported Richelieu in his arms, cradling the back of his head, trying to stop him from hitting his head against the headboard as he convulsed. 

Richelieu was still breathing harshly after his coughing ceased, and Treville settled him back against the pillows again. When he tried to speak his words came out as an unintelligible croak and he pointed, making Treville turn towards the nightstand where he found a decanter and matching glass sitting next to a small box. Guessing that Richelieu was asking for a drink for his sore throat, he put an arm around him to prop him up and helped him guide the glass to his lips.

Treville watched him drink – so desperate to wet his sore throat that Treville had to tilt the glass to avoid it spilling – and imagined the Comtesse de Larroque planning his murder. The thought made his skin prickle.

For what?

The nobles who had threatened Richelieu's life before had all wanted to reinstate a past age where every nobleman was king on his own land. They mourned the old customs and privileges that Richelieu had abolished in the king's name that would enable them to tax and tyrannise as they saw fit, and to raise arms against their king.

Any man could incite their anger merely by mentioning the unjust rule of the First Minister. Once taken to trial, some of those fools had even claimed to want to free the King from the cardinal's evil influence for the sake of the realm – feigning ignorance of the fact that Louis had proposed many of the actions that cut their power himself, because they couldn't admit that taking up arms against Richelieu meant taking up arms against the King.

Seeing their heads roll hardly bothered Treville.

However, Ninon had never seemed the type to care about any of these things, apparently all too happy to abandon her estates for the salons of Paris.

"How can you be so sure about her?"

"Who else could it have been?" Richelieu rasped. He leaned back against Treville's arm and Treville tightened his embrace. It was hard to imagine anyone thinking of him as a threat.

"You heard how she spoke to me."

"You were accusing her of witchcraft." 

The cardinal didn't stop frowning but he shifted closer towards Treville. Somewhat guiltily, Treville thought that he looked even more ashen than before his fit.

"Who else was there at the monastery? She told that girl to poison my drink."

"In front of everyone?"

"She took her best chance."

Treville sat still, biting his lip as he tried to picture the Comtesse as a poisoner. He tried to imagine her planning the cardinal's death – not a political enemy, but a woman in a tight corner, a desperate one, and a vindictive one. With a sinking feeling realised that it was possible, except—

"She wouldn't have used the girl like that."

"Do you believe she cares about her that much? You really are sentimental. You don't know her enough to judge her."

Treville glowered. Sentimentality was what had driven him here, galloping down a dark forest road on a skittish horse. "And you do?"

"Unlike you I don't assume, I deduce. She had the motive and the opportunity."

Only the cardinal's frail condition stopped Treville from scowling at his stubbornness. Someone tried to murder him, and Treville didn't think it was Ninon. That meant the true assassin was still out there, while Richelieu was not in a condition to put up much resistance.

Treville was suddenly glad for his chair, as he felt his limbs grow weak. When Richelieu reached out his hand to him, he took it without thinking. This wasn't the first attempt on the Cardinal's life, but for whoever was behind it to come so close to succeeding was disconcerting.

"You need to be careful," he said, so very aware of Richelieu's hand in his. The Cardinal's grip was anything but firm. "Two guards in front of the chamber aren't enough."

"My Red Guards have kept any unwanted visitors away so far. They are well trained. Besides, my assailant is still in her cell, and your musketeers are watching her accomplice, are they not?"

Treville's frown deepened, but before he could renew their argument, Richelieu indulged him.

"Captain Trudeau is going to arrive tomorrow with reinforcements."

This answer didn't exactly do much to lighten Treville's frown, or improve his opinion of Trudeau. Unlike Richelieu's Captain, Treville was here now. He hadn't waited for the morning.

"And I imagine Luca will look after me until the Captain gets here."

Treville froze. "Will he?"

"He has some practice with that." The man the world knew as the cold-hearted, tyrannical cardinal smiled the same smile he had worn when he had introduced the Jesuit to the King as his old friend Luca. There had been the same genuine warmth in his voice then as there was now.

Treville looked away, anywhere else but at that smile, at the soft, mussed up hair. Had it been in such disarray when he arrived because Richelieu had spent all evening in bed? Or because someone had tousled it, running their hands through the curls that Richelieu usually took such care to tame? Were his lips so warm because they had been kissed already?

Treville swallowed. "Why did he come to Paris?"

"To see me."

That much was obvious. And by what Sistini had told Treville, the Jesuit hoped to see much more of Richelieu in the future. In _Rome_.

"Why?"

"He had a message for me. From the Vatican."

"About Rome?"

"It's the Vatican, Captain." The smile disappeared as Richelieu began to look annoyed. "It is always about Rome."

Richelieu's refusal to give any details did not inspire Treville with confidence.

"But he didn't tell you he was coming." Richelieu had been as surprised by his visit as the rest of them.

"It is an informal visit. We had matters to discuss that the Holy Father doesn't wish the entirety of Europe to know about."

"To what end?" 

"To remind me of Church business. The Vatican doesn't like our Swedish allies."

"He came all the way from Rome to tell you that? Unannounced?" They already had proof of the pope's displeasure in writing.

"Perhaps he has other business in France."

"But he has time for a witch trial?"

Richelieu rolled his eyes at his persistence, and Treville's stomach dropped. If Richelieu and Sistini had merely discussed the very public affair of the Swedish alliance, Richelieu could have told him. Unless the alliance had been the only subject of their conversation and Richelieu had made a terrible decision for France.

"If you must know, he also brought a gift."

"A gift?" Treville remembered the curiously shaped box sitting on the nightstand. He would have turned to look at it if it didn't mean letting go of Richelieu. But then it was Richelieu who made him get up by pushing the empty glass into his hand.

"It's a relic," Richelieu said, when Treville replaced the glass besides the box. "The knee bone of St. Antony."

Treville was even less inclined now to pick it up. Sitting back down, he watched Richelieu sink into the soft pillows. 

"And it's not a gift from Luca, he merely delivered it. It is a gift from the Holy Father."

"The pope sent you a relic?" Treville took a moment to digest this news. "The Pope hates you."

"And to no avail. It seems he has changed his tactics."

Treville very much doubted that. "The Vatican doesn't part with its relics without good reason."

"Since when are you so invested in Church politics?"

"Since there are French interests at stake." Treville couldn't do nothing but try to implore. Had a _knee bone_ really blinded Richelieu? "Such as our alliance with Sweden." The one thing the pope hated possibly even more than he hated Richelieu. Yet the Cardinal expected Treville to believe that the Holy Father had sent him a precious relic and asked nothing in return, when there were so many things he wanted from Richelieu – such as the death of the Swedish alliance.

Had he bought it with a knee bone and a very special old friend sent to sweeten the deal? Sistini was the only man on Earth apart from Treville and the King who called Richelieu by his first name.

Treville didn't doubt that if the Jesuit were sitting here in his place, he could give Richelieu everything he sought for: support for his persecution of Ninon, the scholastic justification for the politics that burdened his consciences, or the justification to turn away from those politics.

Treville swallowed. "How did he take being turned down? I assume Sistini asked you to give up on the alliance?"

Richelieu shrugged, and Treville wished his sudden nonchalance would comfort him. "Luca is only the pope's messenger. He has no personal interest in the matter."

"No personal interest? Even though you're old friends?" Treville couldn't help his surprise. Richelieu was a suspicious bastard. It shouldn't seem so natural that Richelieu would make an exception for this priest. 

Treville swallowed again, but his mouth had gone dry.

"He has been as this game as long as I have." 

Treville grimaced. That was part of what worried him about this affair. When Sistini talked, he could make people listen – and worse than that – he could make people believe. In the pamphlets he had published against the powers of the kings. In witchcraft. In his hope to reunited with Richelieu in Rome.

"Luca knows that we cannot allow our political actions to be coloured by personal feelings. We speak for our sovereigns, not ourselves."

"No hard feelings then?"

"None." Richelieu caught his gaze. Just a few moments ago they had been kissing, holding hands. Now Richelieu's dark look was a clear indicator of how much he wanted to end this conversation. But Treville couldn't let him. Not with the Cardinal's life potentially still in danger. He took Richelieu's hand again, wondering at how familiar the gesture had become in the last hour.

"Doesn't any of this strike you as too convenient?" 

"I can't imagine what you're insinuating."

"A messenger from the pope arrives here in Paris, unannounced, taking advantage of your history to gain a private audience." Treville could feel his heart race. Richelieu was not going to like any of what he was about to say, but the words just sprung from his mouth as he thought them.

"He bears a gift of immense value, a sign of the pope seeking reconciliation with a prodigal cardinal at a time when we're about to ratify an agreement with Sweden that the pope has been meaning to destroy for a long time. Yet, Sistini has spent most of his time here getting involved in the case of a woman whose wealth the king's coffers badly need. Doesn't it occur to you that all he's done since his arrival might be a distraction engineered by the Vatican?"

It was the only way the Pope's apparent change of heart made sense to Treville, but the look of scorn on Richelieu's face made his heart sink.

"Did the Vatican also cause Ninon's pupil to be run over by the royal carriage in order to summon the Comtesse to the palace?" 

Treville frowned. He didn't believe Sistini had been involved in the young woman's death, but that didn't mean much. If Sistini and Richelieu and so much in common, why shouldn't they share the ability to recognise an opportunity and seize it where they saw it?

"They'd have used something else if she hadn't shown up," he said. "Would you have put Ninon on trial for witchcraft if Sistini hadn't suggested it?" 

Richelieu turned his face away and Treville could feel his hand twitch. "It may have occurred to me later."

"Really?" Treville couldn't hide his discomfort at Richelieu's readiness to defend his old friend – the friend that was so sure of Richelieu's future. 

He took a deep, steadying breath. "What if Ninon is being set up to take the blame for your murder? The trial conveniently created a motive for her."

"Don't be absurd."

But Treville didn't think he was. On the contrary. "There are people other than the Baudin girl who had much better opportunities to poison you." 

"Such as?"

Treville hesitated, struck by the enormity of what he was about to say. But what better way to distract attention from yourself as a suspect than by showing interest in the future your victim is never going to have?

"Sistini has been around you since we first got here."

Richelieu pulled his hand back as though he had been burnt. "You don't know what you're saying."

"I know exactly what I'm saying," Treville said, trying to hide the sting.

"You're jealous!"

"I—" Treville was speechless for a moment. He had done what he could to be polite to Sistini despite the way he had inserted himself into their life unannounced, taking up Richelieu's time with tales about witchcraft. But he knew he hadn't convinced Richelieu. His cheeks burned. "I am giving you a warning," he said, feeling hot. "I'm trying to protect you."

"Is it me you wish to protect, or my assassin who sits in her cell while you accuse a priest!"

Treville licked his lips. He needed to stay calm. "You won't even consider that he has something to do with this poison?"

"He was just with me. He could have killed me if he wanted to."

That gave Treville pause. Remembering how he had run into Sistini made him shudder. The guards had barely taken notice of the cardinal's old friend. "It's night," he said, recalling his reaction upon finding the gates of the monastery shut. "Sistini wouldn't be able to leave without creating suspicion before the deed was discovered."

Richelieu stared at him. "You would believe that – that Luca is an assassin, not the woman who had a motive and the opportunity?"

"He spent a lot of time with you, even after he delivered his message," Treville said, no longer sure of himself. Had there ever been a better opportunity for Sistini before they had come to the monastery with the scapegoat already in chains?

"You _are_ jealous! Who do you think I am? One of the Comtesse's harlots?"

"No!" No, no, no. It was as though none of what he said came out of his mouth the way he meant it to. "No." But even as he said it he couldn't shake the image in his head of Sistini holding Richelieu like he had. "I don't know what Sistini offered you, but he has blinded you to everything but what he wants you to see. There is no real evidence against Ninon. If you condemn her, if you give in to anything that Sistini says, you'll be making a mistake."

"I trust Sistini in this. Your judgement is clearly impaired."

Treville flinched. If he hadn't been sitting down, he might have physically retreated. 

Whatever Sistini once had been to Richelieu, he hadn't been with him in the past years. Treville had. Sistini hadn't seen him since Richelieu had become a bishop, whereas Treville had been with him practically ever since. Working with him, his partner in crime – literally on more than one occasion – through the threats of civil wars and exile, the King's childishness and unsteady health. In all that time, no matter what else they had been to each other, there had always been a trust. Even when they hadn't been able to trust much else, even in times of civil war, they had been able to rely on each other, because of the principles they shared.

"You are blinded by your ridiculous jealousy," Richelieu continued. There was a feverish anger in his eyes that made Treville sigh. "The Comtesse will confess, and when she does, she will die."

"Why?" Treville asked. But even as he attempted to regain control of this conversation, to gain purchase with his words, he could feel the ground being washed away. "Because Sistini demands it? In exchange for a trinket? And when he demands that you break our alliances, are you going to obey him then too?"

"Perhaps you should remember to rein in your blasphemy. I am still a cardinal."

"You're the one plotting a woman's murder!"

_"She is the only assassin here!"_

Another coughing fit from Richelieu shut them both up. The cardinal's voice had become thin and with a pang Treville wished he hadn't injured his throat. He reached for the decanter to refill the glass, then helped Richelieu to guide it to his lips, despite Richelieu's attempts to wave him off. 

It took a good while before Richelieu was ready to settle back into the pillows again. Treville wordlessly rearranged the covers around him, but Richelieu wouldn't meet his eyes until Treville pulled back.

In the ensuing silence, Treville heard his own heart pound. The last thing he had intended was to worsen Richelieu's troubles. It wasn't what he had come for, what he had braced night and injury for. It wasn't. 

He took a deep breath. 

"I don't have Sistini's gifts or his words," he said. What did he have left to make Richelieu listen? "I can only implore you to think very carefully about what you're doing. This show trial is beneath you. I know you are better than that."

Richelieu turned his face away and looked straight at the dark window. "I believe you've said quite enough for tonight," he said. His voice was papery thin.

Treville found it hard to force any words out of his constricting throat as well. "You won't listen then."

Richelieu did not turn back. "If you see Luca on your way out, tell him to come see me in the morning." 

Treville stood, feeling numb. He fought for words as he looked down at Richelieu – still so pale, still so vulnerable. The memory of their recent victory over the Medici Queen seemed so far away now. 

"Good luck," Treville said.

  


* * *

  


When Treville returned to his rooms at the garrison shortly before morning, he dreamt of a snowed-in clearing in Savoy.  
 


	3. Chapter 3

Luca was the assassin.

 _Luca._ Darkly handsome Luca.

The musketeers – of course it had been musketeers, when were they not poking their heads into Richelieu's business? – had shown up too late to take him into custody and so they had killed him. Richelieu could still see him standing above him, a bloody stiletto in hand, ready to take the lifeblood of his dear old friend.

His guards had done nothing to stop Luca from entering. Luca had killed the man guarding his door.

The memory made him want to sit down. 

Not on the bed. Not there. The sheets were stained with Luca's blood. The remaining Red Guards had only just taken away the body to be burned. 

What good were guards when you yourself invited in the assassin?

Richelieu shuddered and sank into the chair behind the small writing desk. The musketeers were gone now – gone to escort Ninon de Larroque into her exile. There was no reason for him to pretend to be unaffected.

 _Luca_.

What a pleasant surprise it had been to see Luca again after all this time – an old friend, an ally not entangled in the daily court intrigue. Someone didn't ask for favours in exchange for his loyalty. Richelieu should have realized the moment Luca had walked into the royal audience hall that nothing Pope Urban had sent him had ever been pleasant.

Luca may have been a fool for attempting to murder the First Minister of France twice, but Richelieu was the greater fool for having trusted him in the first place. Luca had almost succeeded in his intent, whereas Richelieu…

Richelieu thought he had come to terms with his suspicious nature. He didn't believe he ever mistrusted anyone without good reason. Over the years he had made many enemies, only some of who opposed him because of what he represented such as a state or a hated faith. Most of the time, they were men Richelieu had never met. 

Other enemies he had created himself. Since he had first come to court he had driven away so many former allies – men who resented that he had withdrawn his patronage when they had become a liability. He never trusted anyone he had injured. 

His mistake had been not to extent that caution to the injured party's messenger.

Richelieu had underestimated Pope Urban. He hadn't believed that the pope would think dig into his past and find the one man Richelieu hadn't abandoned. The one man close enough to him to plunge a stiletto between his ribs.

It made him wonder what else His Holiness knew. Just how well could he see through him? How long had it taken him to find a dream that could tempt Richelieu, and the one man who could possibly convince him to believe in it?

Even now, Richelieu couldn't entirely separate his assassin from the serious boy Luca had once been, with his dark eyes and dark moods. There had been such an intensity to him, to those eyes, and to his temperament. Their instructors had never sought to quench that fire, because he had been a good student – not as brilliant as Richelieu, but hard-working, passionate about everything he touched.

To Richelieu, who had been fascinated by theology but who had feared having to leave behind all passion on embarking upon a clerical career, Luca had been irresistible – an inspiration for what heights religious fervour could take you to, as well as a reminder of the heights of more secret passions. Luca had always been diligent in _everything_ he did. 

When he had joined the Jesuits, Richelieu may have been a little disappointed, but not surprised. It was the right place to keep his flame blowing. 

Just a body now, and soon not even that. How fitting that Richelieu had sent him to the pyre. He had offered up that body to become yet another tool in this skirmish with the Holy Father. The thought made Richelieu sigh. Not even God's representative on Earth shied from making use of assassins, so why did it feel so wrong? Why had concern for the fate of his soul kept Richelieu awake all night?

After Milady had delivered the Comtesse's confession, Richelieu had lain awake in his sickbed, exhausted, yet unable to sleep, pondering his death. His triumph had been an insignificantly small comfort compared to a lover's touch.

Richelieu shook his head, trying to dislodge the thought. How often had he told Treville that sentimentality led nowhere? 

Where had that sentimentality led Treville now? Richelieu had been so weak he had barely been able to raise his head last night, and yet Treville was nowhere to be seen. He had not been among the musketeers who had saved Richelieu from his assassin's blade. Treville could have returned to the monastery to escort him to the palace, but apparently sparing a thought for Richelieu was beyond the noble captain while he nursed his jealousy over Luca and his indignation over a woman he hadn't known was innocent of his supposed lover's attempted murder.

Richelieu took a deep breath, surprised at how unsteady he felt. He wasn't even angry. _He wasn't_. But he tasted bile when he swallowed.

If Treville had been so concerned about Luca's intentions, why had he left the monastery? Why had he left Richelieu to face the night alone? Why was the suggestion to leave the one he obeyed when he wouldn't listen to Richelieu's suspicions about the Comtesse?

Before his oldest friend had attempted to drive a stiletto into his heart, Richelieu might have found it harder to believe that Treville could condemn him so easily after all this time.

It was Savoy all over again. Over a mere Comtesse.

If Treville had abandoned him, at least Richelieu could be sure he would never poison him or attempt to murder him in his sleep. Treville kill him when he was wide awake. He'd always make sure his victim saw it coming, even if that opened him up to retaliation. Even in murder, Treville would abide by the same damned honour that made him such a pain to include in Richelieu's schemes in the past.

Richelieu stood up. He should find his robes and finish dressing, but he couldn't avoid thinking about the past night, not with that blood-stained bed in view.

Despite what he had told Treville, against his hopes, Luca had not returned to comfort him during the night. He hadn't come to see if Richelieu needed anything – from a glass of water to a loving touch. Now that Luca had revealed his true intentions it was clear why.

Treville had been right about Luca. The memory of how he had refused to listened to his warning burned a hole into the lining of Richelieu's stomach. 

After Treville had left, Richelieu had been kept awake by thoughts of never waking up, unable to forget the sensation of his throat constricting and of losing control. 

Even now Richelieu couldn't help but touch his throat as he thought about it.

As he had lain contemplating his own death and damnation, Richelieu had been too exhausted to reject Treville's arguments. As much as he had wanted to reject these arguments when Treville had been there, the truth of what the reliquary contained had come to him them eventually, draining him more effectively than any poison. 

The knee bone of St. Antony of Padua, patron saint of the lost. The Pope couldn't have sent Richelieu a clearer message, but if not for Treville's damned conscience Richelieu would have remained oblivious.

The relic had to be destroyed as well. 

Richelieu sighed. The saint would have to forgive him. His remains had been defiled long before the little box reached him.

Best to throw it onto the pyre as well, he thought. That way he could send its ashes to the Holy Father in the same box as Luca's. Two instruments of murder.

As he contemplated the blood stains on the bed, Richelieu thought again of the body he had once known so well. Luca's dark eyes, so hot with fervour, his large hands, his lips – soon to be ashes. And yet Richelieu couldn't help but wonder, had they kissed, whether those lips would have tasted differently now than they had back then.

Of course, Luca would hardly have been interested in him for any other reason than to blind Richelieu to the harm he was doing by giving in to his proposals. In fact, their past history hadn't come up once during this visit. At the time Richelieu had assumed that it was because they were both practical men with new lives and new careers. As it turned out Luca hadn't needed to kiss him to make him blind.

Had Luca enjoyed the fact that he alone knew his former lover's hunger well enough to goad him and to prey on his ambitions so expertly?

In a way, the two of them – Luca and Treville – had done him a favour. Only now that he had been so abandoned could he see clearly again: only his work in the name of the crown counted for anything. Everything beyond that – everything that these men had dangled in front of him – had been dreams Richelieu was barred from pursuing as the First Minister of France. 

Giving in to temptation had almost cost him everything he had built up over the last decades. Luca's attempt on his life had been a fitting punishment, a warning of what he deserved for even having considered abandoning his task.

Treville had been right about more than the identity of his assassin. Richelieu hadn't put the Comtesse on trial for her money, and he hadn't done it to defend the Faith as he had pretended before the court.

He had done it to curry favour with his peers, because the chimaera that the college of cardinals might consider him as the next pope had been too tempting to ignore. As if any of them would believe him to be a staunch enemy of heresy while he courted protestant nations.

Richelieu scoffed at himself. De Larroque's money hadn't even mattered to him anymore at that point. He had put his own hunger for power over the needs of his country.

Steering the ship of state left no room for other ambitions, clerical or otherwise. Pursuing them meant becoming as corrupted and weak a creature as his predecessor had been.

No person, no nation, no God would stand in his way.

There could be no exceptions to his new creed. None.

Nothing could be allowed to distract him from this path. No sweet dreams whispered into his ear by a former lover. No accommodations for his present lover's honour. 

Richelieu thought of how Treville had informed him that Marie's grandson having survived. It was unlikely to happen, but if the child was ever found and made the figurehead of a new uprising every man, child and woman in France would have to bear the consequences. At the time, Richelieu had allowed his reservations about the incident to be buried by passion – just as he had allowed Luca to smother his reason with temptation.

How could Richelieu afford to let himself be influenced by his lover's conscience if it led him to such terrible, vulnerable sentimentality?

Men came and went, but it was Richelieu's responsibility to see to it that France endured.

At least he had destroyed any proof of the infant's lineage, but he couldn't be so careless again. The consequences of someone finding out that the Comtesse had survived her death on the pyre wouldn't be as catastrophic, but that was no reason to become careless. The musketeers had better keep their secret or face the consequences. No one could know she was still alive. 

No one.

_No person, no nation, no God._

No exceptions.

  


* * *

  


News of the Comtesse's execution reached Treville before his musketeers returned to the garrison. Richelieu had arrived a couple of hours before them, but Treville had wanted to hear the gruesome details from his own men before he jumped to any conclusions.

The musketeers couldn't say how exactly the Cardinal had obtained a confession, and they were slow in coming out with details of the execution. Treville didn't begrudge them their curtness. Watching someone being burn on a pyre was high on the list of memories Treville wished he had never made. If the victim was lucky, they would be strangled by the executioner before the pyre was lit. The heat and the stench were hellish enough as an onlooker. If they weren't lucky… 

Treville suppressed a full-body shudder as he tried to shake off the thought. He had to focus on the street. It wasn't a particularly long ride from the musketeers' garrison to the Palais Cardinal and he'd prefer if he got there without running down any passers-by, but still his thoughts returned to the Comtesse and her executioner.

Treville had hoped there could have been another way, but in the end the decision had lain with the Cardinal, her judge and likely victim. 

It was morbid, but Treville couldn't help wondering whether Richelieu had watched her die and what he had felt as the flames had consumed her. He could ask him now if he wanted to. 

As he passed through the gates into the courtyard in front of the main building of the Palais Cardinal Treville once more thought that the King himself couldn't ask for a more beautiful palace. The ornamented front of the palais hid a wide, columed atrium and a spacious garden in the contemporary, symmetrical style. If he had chosen a different path in life, Richelieu might have been content with simpler living arrangements, but as the First Minister he made sure to leave no one in doubt who was the power behind the throne. 

Treville's frown deepened at the thought.

_Richelieu was the man who ran the country, yet still did the Holy Father's bidding._

Upon dismounting, Treville immediately demanded to be taken to the Cardinal. The footman who received him told him that Richelieu was busy working in his main office, but he obeyed and agreed to lead the way. Treville chose to take that as a sign that the previous day hadn't left any lasting, detrimental effects on the cardinal's health – the way his conscience felt relieved at the news bothered Treville slightly – but when he finally entered the office he wasn't so sure.

Treville's horror at the Comtesse's fate receded as looked at Richelieu sitting behind his desk, appearing as sickly and pale as he had the day before. Treville was overcome with the desire to embrace him, but after the way they had parted during the night, he decided to squash the urge as neither of them deserved it. Unless Richelieu asked him to approach, which would be a different matter.

"Captain."

When Richelieu briefly looked up from his paperwork to greet him, the dark shadows under his eyes told Treville that Richelieu had hardly slept at all. Apparently Sistini had not returned that night to take care of him and help him sleep.

Treville immediately chastised himself for the thought. It had been his jealousy that had caused their argument to escalate to such an extent that Richelieu had sent him away.

"I gather your journey back to Paris was uneventful?" Treville asked. _No more assassination attempts I failed to prevent?_

Richelieu looked up at him annoyed. "Yes," he snapped. _'No thanks to you'_ was clearly implied, and Treville frowned.

"I came to see if you're well."

"I am busy, as you can see, but thank you for your concern." Richelieu didn't sound very thankful.

"Busy deciding how to spend the Comtesse's money?" 

Not a clever answer, let alone a fair one, but at least it made Richelieu put down the pen and look at him. This time, the shadows under his eyes alone were not enough to distract Treville. 

"As a matter of fact, yes. I am trying to work out the details of the investments in ships and fortresses along the border that _the King and his council_ have agreed on. Something that will, without a doubt, benefit your men once war is declared. All paid with the money of a traitor."

A traitor. That was how she would be remembered now. And for what? Treville briefly looked away. 

Treville still wasn't entirely convinced the Comtesse had been the one to try and poison the Cardinal. The thought that she should abuse one of her young protégées by turning her into an instrument of murder didn't ring true, not when considering the risks that she had taken on the behalf of these girls.

She was dead now, burned. Choked on the fumes of her own charring flesh.

Of course, there was always the chance that the Comtesse _had_ done what she confessed to – at least the crimes not related to witchcraft.

If she had, Treville had no business being outraged at her fate.

Treville straightened, collecting himself. He knew he was walking on thin ice by pushing the matter again, but he couldn't let it rest. Not while Richelieu was so vulnerable, not while another suspect might be so close. As cold-hearted as Richelieu sometimes fancied himself to be, the thought that someone had poisoned him still seemed monstrous to Treville and the possibility that the poisoner might still be at large was unacceptable.

"Father Sistini has gone?"

As he had feared, Richelieu glared at him. "What makes you assume that? That I'm in my office, trying to work and not neglecting my duty in order to flirt?"

It was as though Treville was cursed to put his foot in his mouth today. The hurt look on Richelieu's face almost made him want to shut up entirely. 

If de Larroque had been the true villain, Treville had done Richelieu's old friend a disservice – his old lover. Someone who had known Richelieu before he had even been a scheming bishop let alone the all-powerful cardinal. Someone who understood his theological needs.

"Father Sistini is on his way back to Rome."

Treville looked up.

Sistini was gone, returned to Rome – _alone_. Richelieu was still here, pale and tired and sick after half a day spent in the Louvre fighting with the royal council over the military budget.

Treville looked into Richelieu's face, the hard lines around his mouth, put there by sickness, age and the cynicism that came from one too many intrigues spun against his person. He couldn't have slept the previous night. Treville shouldn't have left him.

Perhaps he had been wrong. Perhaps he had done Richelieu and his friend an injury. Perhaps Sistini was the one who was innocent – of murder as well as of attempting to seduce his former lover.

The musketeers had found no clue to identify the assassin, but the Comtesse had confessed without a mark of torture on her. Perhaps Treville had to begin to accept that the Cardinal had executed the right person. 

"I treated you very harshly last night," he said, feeling his cheeks burn when his apology made Richelieu frown. The man was impossible to please.

Treville took a deep breath. "And I judged your friend unfairly," he continued and saw Richelieu twitch in a way that only someone as familiar with the Cardinal's body language as Treville could have identified as flinching. 

Treville swallowed, feeling the same chilly doubt settle at the back of his mind that had kept nagging him last night. He had expected Richelieu to gloat over his triumph, perhaps even allowing them to move on from this argument, but instead of reaching out and taking Treville's apology, Richelieu remained walled off behind his desk.

"Will you tell me what he promised?" Treville asked, stepping closer to the desk if only to be sure that he would be able to hear Richelieu's answer over the sound of his own heartbeat. 

Richelieu looked down at his desk and Treville felt his stomach sink. That was a _no_.

"It doesn't matter anymore," Richelieu said, looking oddly dejected in a way that made Treville wonder whether it was still possible to intercept Sistini and force the truth out of him. "Only France matters – something greater than you or I."

"That is your answer?" Treville hated that Richelieu felt the need to emphasize that last point, as though Treville didn't know. As though Treville's hands weren't red with the blood of the sacrifices he had made in the name of that paradigm. As though he hadn't chained his life to it as much as Richelieu had.

France mattered – yes. So much so that it didn't need to be stated between the two of them.

So for whose benefit was Richelieu repeating it now?

"There is something you're not telling me about this and it has to do with your obligations to the Vatican." Treville straightened, attempting to steel himself for the anger his next question was likely to summon. "How does that serve France?"

"I regret to have to be the one to tell you this, but _you_ are not France, Captain." 

Treville fought to keep a straight face and lost. "The First Minister's relations to the Holy See are my business."

"France is my only obligation," Richelieu snapped, standing up. "The King is my only master. Are you satisfied now? Nothing else is important."

Treville wanted to believe him, but he couldn't. Not after he had seen Sistini goad Richelieu into holding a literal witch trial. Not while Richelieu was being so reticent about how that had happened for no reason that Treville could see.

At least the relic had disappeared from Richelieu's desk.

"If Rome's secrets are nothing to you, then why—?"

"Have you come to question my loyalty again?" Richelieu's face darkened as he regarded Treville, his eyes cold. "If you distrust me so much, say it."

"You're twisting my words!"

"Am I?"

Treville swallowed. If he lost his head, Richelieu would have succeeded in making him forget his initial inquiry. "I've always trusted you," he said, forcing himself to speak slowly, calmly. "I have always trusted your intentions for France."

Even after Savoy he had come to understand what Richelieu had done and why it had been necessary. Although the memory of the fallen men still made him tremble, he had understood that what Richelieu had done had served a goal.

"I always understood your motives, eventually—"

"That is what you see when you at me, is it?" Richelieu wouldn't let him finish. He pinned Treville with his icy gaze and leaned forward. As he rested his fingertips on the desktop Treville could see them tremble. "How I can lead you astray. How I can betray you."

"That isn't true." Treville was starting to realise that he would get nowhere with his current line of arguments. "I didn't treat you as you deserved," as he started anew, "but you had to make it more difficult by refusing to tell me about the Swedish alliance."

"Because there was nothing to know!"

Treville met Richelieu's heated stare and returned it. "And now?"

"There still isn't anything to know." Richelieu straightened his robes, taking the opportunity to look away and Treville felt the sinking feeling return. 

"If you have nothing to say to me apart from fresh accusations, I believe it is better if you left."

 _How they had gotten to this point so quickly again_? Treville had merely intended to see for himself whether Richelieu was well. He could say he had gotten an answer to that question, but had no idea how to handle it. As Richelieu appeared to have no intention to relieve him of his confusion all Treville was left with were a deep frustration and even deeper exhaustion at having to fight the same fight again.

Richelieu remained standing behind his desk, still trembling, still pale, still lovely. But Treville could not afford to think of that at the moment.

Countless successful campaigns had taught Treville to fight. They had also taught him when to retreat.

Despite his reservations concerning Sistini and de Larroque, Treville had offered an apology; he had offered peace. All he had asked for in return had been an explanation. What happened next was up solely to Richelieu.

"If you need me," he said before turning towards the exit, "you know where to find me." 

Richelieu said nothing.

Treville thought he felt the Cardinal's eyes on his back as he left, but he didn't dare turn around to confirm it.

  


* * *

  


"Captain Trudeau was given fair warning. His own arrogance killed him." Treville's voice was low, barely more than a growl, and Richelieu responded in kind.

"Labarge is a regional intendant," he barked. "You had no business arresting him without coming to me first." But Treville had refrained from showing his face since the day Richelieu had returned from the monastery, meeting with him only for what he felt absolutely demanded the cooperation of the First Minister. For some reason the arrest of one of said minister's intendants appeared not to fall into that category.

"Your _intendant_ ," so much venom wrapped up in a single word – if only Treville would put as much energy in apologising – "is a violent criminal who subjected Gascony to a reign of terror."

"I went to Gascony once. It was full of sheep and hedges." 

The King's voice stopped Richelieu in his tracks. They were standing in one of the Louvre's entrance halls, where the king was making use of the refreshments offered by his pages to wipe the dust of the road off his face. He was currently regarding his two advisors with amusement.

At one point in their argument they must have passed from the arcades into the palace without Richelieu having been conscious of it. 

With a sigh, Richelieu turned towards Treville, who had come to a halt a good arm's length away from him. The Captain regarded his King as though Louis had materialised out of thin air – combined with the anger on his face, this gave him quite the stumped appearance. If only the reason for Treville's anger weren't so audacious, Richelieu might have laughed. 

Richelieu had to take a moment to steady his voice before he spoke again, and tried not to think about how the only reason he hadn't minded his voice before was that he had somehow managed to forget the illustrious presence of the King of France. 

"It is true that Labarge exceeded his authority," he said. It was no admittance of any neglect on his part, merely a statement of facts. "But I was in the process of recalling him to Paris before Captain Treville so reckless intervened."

Treville's response was as indignant as it was swift. "The Red Guards put innocent lives at risk."

Richelieu felt his bile rise. Here they were again. Treville had found yet another opportunity to make him the villain in an affair he had himself caused. Whatever had happened earlier that day between musketeers and Red Guards had nothing to do with Richelieu, and everything to do with Treville being a stubborn, uncommunicative glory hound, who liked to believe against all reason that his musketeers were the best solution for any problem.

"The musketeers were lucky my guards didn't kill them!" Not that they wouldn't have had good reason to after the insult dealt to them by the death of their Captain.

"Oh really?" Treville took a step towards him, and then paused as though he was only just processing what Richelieu had said. He straightened. "You know what?" 

Richelieu didn't know _what_ and was sure he didn't want to know _what_ , but he could tell that Treville wouldn't listen to reason. He couldn't remember the last time Treville had sounded so childish. 

As Richelieu responded to Treville's stare a raised eyebrow the _what?_ was clearly written on his face.

" _Any_ of my musketeers could thrash any of your Red Guards at _any_ time!" 

_Here it was_. Treville was getting louder, his face taking on colour as he leant in close, inching towards Richelieu as though driven forward by the momentum of his anger. If Richelieu hadn't seen this kind of posturing many times before it might even have been the slightest bit intimidating. But despite what Treville's short temperament suggested, Richelieu knew him too well to believe that Treville would ever lunge at him. 

All that strength, all that raw power held on such a short leash. Under happier circumstances it might have made Richelieu sigh appreciatively.

But as it was, Treville's show of anger did nothing so much as feed Richelieu's growing annoyance. Did any of Treville's thoughts ever not revolve about the musketeers? 

"A thousand livres Captain Treville is right."

Richelieu wore the same unamused look he had been giving Treville as he turned to regard the King, but Louis happily prattled on as though Richelieu's practiced look of disapproval was invisible.

"Each side is to choose his champion in a contest to settle the matter." 

The King sounded entirely too amused to Richelieu's ears. Apparently he enjoyed seeing his First Minister being hounded again for something that was the musketeers' fault. The King had always had too soft a spot for that damned parade regiment. 

"What do you say, Cardinal. Do you accept the wager?" 

Richelieu couldn't be hearing things right. He turned back to Treville just in time to see the Captain taking a step back, his posturing visibly deflated. He didn't appear to like this idea he had accidentally inspired in the King at all.

Well, tough luck.

If he had to be forced into this wager by the whims of his monarch, Richelieu would at least take care that the musketeers received such a thrashing that they would think twice before interfering with his business for a long, long while.

Richelieu tried to hide the rising excitement in his voice as he spoke. "Shall we say, two thousand livres?" 

Treville was lost now. The musketeers were lost. Louis liked nothing so much as brazenness and the thought of a little extra money in the treasury. With the King's smile the deal was sealed before Treville had regained his composure. 

Mischief accomplished, the King took his leave of his advisors, returning to his quarters with a smile on his face. Adopting a more restrained version of Louis' grin, Richelieu turned to Treville, who looked back at him in stunned silence. The sight gave Richelieu no little pleasure. This was where the Captain's posturing about his little soldiers and his refusal to consult with the First Minister led.

Having had a moment to take in Richelieu's satisfied expression, Treville wordlessly turned on his heel and made for the exit.

"Captain, wait."

Richelieu made no attempt to hide his smile when Treville spun to face him and roared, "I can't believe you encouraged him!"

"If you don't think your men are up to the task—"

"There are more important things my men can do with their time!"

"I can't think of any," Richelieu said as Treville started puffing himself up again. "The Red Guards will make it a short competition." Richelieu would make sure of it. There would be no more indulgences. The Red Guard would learn to control themselves, and so would the musketeers.

No man, no nation, no God could be allowed to stand in Richelieu's way. That included his own men.

Treville would never understand that. All he could see were the two musketeers who had been killed by Labarge during the first attempt to arrest him in Gascony.

That was why he needed Richelieu and his cool head. Unfortunately, Treville was too proud to listen.

"My musketeers will have your Red Guards on the floor before you can even blink!"

Richelieu calmly held up a hand as Treville took a step toward him. "As uplifting as it is, I didn't come here merely to discussing more opportunities for your men to embarrass themselves in front of my guards." He reached into his robes and pulled out a number of folded papers.

"While your men so hastily set out without proper authority to apprehend my intendant, my people compiled a list of charges against Labarge to prepare a proper trial."

"Your intendant murdered two musketeers!"

"All the more reason to have waited."

Richelieu expected to be shouted at when Treville opened his mouth again, but words must have abandoned him momentarily as he ripped the document out of Richelieu's hands. 

"I would have given it to you earlier," Richelieu continued, "if you had told me you were interested in the case."

"What do you want me to do with this?" Treville snapped. At least he had stopped shouting. "Labarge is _your_ problem now."

 _He was_. After the fight had been broken up by patrolling Red Gaurds, the outnumbered musketeers had magnanimously ceded their claim to the prisoner. At least Labarge's interrogation was something the Cardinal still had to look forward to. The Lord knew there had very little else for him to enjoy since his return from the monastery. 

"Labarge may be my problem now, but the lands Labarge ravaged are close to _your_ home," Richelieu said as Treville continued to glare daggers at him. That's where doing something thoughtful got him. Being yelled at.

He sighed.

_No person, no nation, no God._

"I suggest you take that list back to the Garrison and read it closely. Your young recruit may want to see it."

  


* * *

  


_'Any of my musketeers can thrash any of your Red Guards at any time!'_

As Richelieu watched his guards wrestle he was inclined to believe Treville. Whether they were holding back because they hesitated to injure each other over a mere game, or simply because the king's own elite guard regiment did attract abler recruits than the Cardinal's Red Guard didn't change the fact that Richelieu didn't like what he saw. 

Richelieu trusted the Red Guard with his life – he had to. He trusted them to prevail against threats ranging from upset citizens wielding pitchforks up to common assassins breaking into his apartments, but that wasn't going to help them win this tournament, because Richelieu had no doubt that Treville wasn't going to make anyone less than the musketeer Porthos his champion. Richelieu had many adequate soldiers, but he had no Porthos.

If he was going to teach anyone a lesson, he needed someone better. Someone Treville and the musketeers would never expect.

  


* * *

  


Richelieu smiled darkly as the herald announced the king's champion. What else could he have done? He had blindly encouraged this madness hadn't he?

He had wanted to show up the musketeers and teach his own men a lesson in the process and now he got what he deserved.

When Richelieu had encouraged the King's wager he'd forgotten that Treville's pride was as vast as his own.

At the Cardinal's side, the King was beaming. He had no idea that he had set his prize hound on a wild boar.

A murmur went through the crowd as Richelieu's champion was called to the arena. The musketeers in particular looked agitated – all except for Treville. Even in his bulky leather doublet the Captain looked small compared to Labarge, but he watched the giant enter the arena calmly, as though Labarge was the man he had expected. 

Somehow, he had _known_ what Richelieu was planning, and instantly Richelieu could guess why Treville had elected to take the fight himself. He would never understand why Treville had thought it'd be a good idea, but he could guess how he arrived at that decision.

_'Your intendant murdered two musketeers!'_

Richelieu sighed. At least they could all be sure the King would stop the fight before Labarge murdered a third.

"Shouldn't he be in the Bastille?" 

The King's enthusiasm appeared to have been dampened by the appearance of Labarge and Richelieu was forced to tear his eyes away from the tourney grounds for a moment as he answered him.

"Oh, I am a great believer in rehabilitation, sire," he quipped and the King threw him a dark look. Richelieu had been so proud of his trick. At least he wasn't the only one who had been fooled by it.

As the King settled back into his seat, Richelieu was free to return his attention to the tourney grounds.

_Let the games begin._

From the moment the herald opened the fight, the duel had Richelieu on the edge of his seat. It wasn't like him to hope against the success of his own plans, but neither was remaining calm while a murderer was going after his captain with the intent to harm – even when he himself had employed said murderer to do just that. 

Fencing was hardly a word for what Labarge was doing. He put all his strengths into his attempts to bash Treville's sword away in order to create an opening to land a thrust. Within moments Treville had Labarge dart all over the arena, attempting to find a weakness in the Captain's guard and expending his stamina quickly.

When Treville drew first blood, Richelieu settled back into his seat. The show-off hadn't even deemed it necessary to draw his off-hand weapon. 

Richelieu could already hear the boasting he'd be subjected to later – from the King and every musketeer in the city. Treville would claim that he had taken the fight for some noble reason other than revenge and pride, but he would be proud as well, and susceptible to flattery which Richelieu had every intention to exploit.

Treville was never going to let him live this down. He'd be insufferable for weeks – but at least this might make Treville talk to him again. Smugly, of course – at least at first. Richelieu was even prepared to forgive him. He _did_ look rather dashing as he danced across the tourney ground, making his opponent run circles around him. Labarge should have had the advantage of reach and brute strength but lacked the captain's finesse and training.

As Treville bowed before the King he appeared only slightly out of breath – and very much off guard. 

It was then that Richelieu realised that he couldn't remember whether they had actually been fighting for first blood, or whether anyone had told Labarge. 

It happened so fast. One moment Treville had been saluting the King, and in the blink of an eye Labarge was lunging at him again, battering at him with quick, hard blows that fell too rapidly for Treville to raise his guard effectively.

When Treville fell, Richelieu jumped in his seat.

When he heard Treville's yell and the crunch of Larbarge's boot meeting bone, all satisfaction had drained from his face.

  


* * *

  


The Red Guards were wise enough to ignore the musketeers' jeers as they helped Richelieu down from the carriage and followed him across the garrison courtyard to the familiar staircase. The musketeers' garrison was never a quiet place, but their newest recruit's victory over the Cardinal's champion predictably incited the King's Own to climb to new heights of obnoxiousness.

Richelieu bade his guards to wait as he ascended the stairs, praying their wisdom might prevail a little a longer, when he ran into the musketeer he recognised as Athos – a man who perpetually appeared to be on the verge of rolling his eyes.

"Can I help you, Your Eminence?" The musketeer asked, not in a rush to cease blocking the Cardinal's path.

"By stepping out of my way. I have to speak with your Captain." 

Athos' lips twisted into the mockery of an obliging smile. "I'm surprised that this appears to be news to you, but he is currently unavailable."

Richelieu's had trouble keeping his voice light in the face of so much stubbornness. "I'm aware of his indisposition." He doubted he'd be able to forget the moment Labarge had thrown Treville to the ground. It had taken barely a moment, but for some reason Richelieu remembered every move. Treville hitting the ground. The way his face had twisted in pain.

Richelieu narrowed his eyes, focusing on Athos. "Unfortunately, matters of state have little concern for one's health, and so, since your Captain is unavailable to attend my office at the palace, I have taken it upon myself to bring these matters to his attention. Personally"

"How gracious of you," Athos said, and still didn't budge. 

Richelieu flashed his teeth in an equally mock-courteous smile. "Once more I see why Treville is so fond of your regiment; you're effortlessly obstructing state business. Clearly, he made the right decision not to leave you for the palace guard."

Athos barely moved a muscle, refusing to rise to the bait. "We set his shoulder not an hour ago, I doubt he wants to see you."

"Why don't you ask him?" Richelieu retorted, and to his surprise, Athos bowed his head. He had already prepared to order his guards to shove past the musketeer.

"Please, allow me to show you in, Your Eminence."

Richelieu patiently waited for Athos to announce him before he entered the Captain's office, where he found Treville sitting behind his desk.

Looking up from his notes, Treville regarded Richelieu coolly, before telling Athos with a nod that he could leave. Fortunately, the musketeer had the presence of mind to close the door behind him.

"Cardinal." Treville's voice sounded rough, but he hadn't thrown him out.

"Captain." He had been invited in. Only as Richelieu breathed in deeply did he realise how nervous he had been. 

Feeling emboldened, Richelieu took a moment to look at Treville. He was wearing his brown leather doublet draped loosely across his shoulders over a partially unlaced shirt. A sling cradled his left arm and through the low, open collar of his shirt Richelieu caught a glimpse of bandages.

"What are you doing here?" 

Richelieu lowered his eyes to take in the state of Treville's desk. A stack of opened letters sat next to a large bottle of spirits.

"Should you be working?" Richelieu asked, seeking Treville's face. It took effort not to stare at the sling.

"It's what I'm being paid for." Treville's voice was as grim as his frown. Putting aside the pile of papers sitting in front of him he screwed his eyes shut briefly. 

The sight made Richelieu take an unintentional step forward before he could stop himself.

"I shouldn't even be sitting," Treville said and rose, wincing. He moved his hand to rub his shoulder, but dropped it again, having thought better of touching the injured area.

"So what do you want from me?"

Richelieu froze. This should have been easy. _What did he want?_ Once he had appeased the King with the prize money and dealt with what urgent business he had at the Louvre that day he could have returned to the Palais Cardinal, but instead he had bid his driver to take a detour to the musketeers' garrison.

The one thing he was sure of was that he hadn't come here to be dealt with so brusquely.

"If you don't care for my comforting presence, I'll leave," Richelieu said calmly despite, the sudden hurt. "I have business to attend to."

"Your _presence_ ," Treville snapped, "is why I'm angry." 

Richelieu couldn't help but stare. "You're angry? At me?" Richelieu could imagine why, but that didn't mean he had to accept to suffer Treville's foul mood. After all, Treville wasn't entirely innocent in his predicament. "How was I to know that you would elect to fight a man twice your size in single combat?"

"I had him!" Treville stepped closer, gesticulating wildly. He must have immediately regretted the abrupt movements as he started gasping in pain. 

Richelieu suppressed the urge to walk over to him and either offer a helping hand or rip the offending sling away. He guessed that neither would be appreciated.

"And then he had you," he continued, once Treville had stopped wincing and started glaring again. "Because somehow you failed to realise that he was not required to stop fighting at first blood." Richelieu swallowed an unexpected lump in his throat. "Not everyone enjoys sacrificing at the altar of honour as much as you do."

For a long moment Treville glowered at him, before walking towards the cot he kept in his office. Richelieu reached out his hand to provide assistance, but Treville snapped at him: "I can walk! I don't need my shoulder for that!"

As he sank onto the narrow bed Richelieu kept frowning at him, remembering something Athos had set.

"You let your musketeers treat you?"

"Bloody doctors would have amputated my arm."

Richelieu smiled. "Not before a thorough bloodletting." 

"True." Treville snorted in amusement, but as soon as his eyes met Richelieu's he looked away again. "If you want to be helpful, you can help me get these boots off." 

Richelieu took one look at the items in questions – still dusty from the tourney grounds – and wrinkled his nose. 

"Call your servant."

"I sent the boy away when Athos set my shoulder." Treville lifted his right leg in a clear request. "Help me, or get out."

With a dutiful sigh Richelieu tugged at the offered boot.

"To think you'd be so vain that you refuse to have a servant hear you cry out." When the boot finally came off Richelieu dropped it to the floor unceremoniously. For a moment he was left holding Treville's calf with one hand. It was impossible not to stop and feel the muscles under the stocking before Treville pulled his leg away.

"I sent him to buy all the Armagnac he can find so I can sleep, for a week."

Rolling his eyes, Richelieu removed the second boot and Treville lay down on the bed with a sigh. This time, he accepted Richelieu's steadying hand. 

"Better?"

Treville grunted in reply, leaning heavily against Richelieu's shoulder before he sat up again, pulling at his doublet. Richelieu struggled to hold back the fresh smile that tugged at his lips as he helped Treville shake off the offending clothing.

"A proper bed would be much better for your shoulder." As Richelieu sat down next to him on the narrow cot he could feel the frame bite into his thighs. He'd never understood why Treville insisted on keeping this thing in his office. He needed a new mattress at the very least. 

"I have one at the Palais Cardinal," Richelieu continued, surprising himself with the sincerity of his offer. He truly wanted to have Treville at the palais again. He imagined bedding him on silken sheets and sharing wine-soaked kisses in between lectures on what a reckless fool Treville was.

Treville didn't combat Richelieu's desires when he stretched out one of his legs and rested it in the Cardinal's lap.

"I don't care." Treville had started frowning again. "Couldn't you have brought the bottle before you sat down?"

"Don't expect me to be sympathetic while you're angry at me over something that is your own fault." But even as the words left his mouth, Richelieu couldn't stop himself from putting a hand on the spot where Treville's stocking disappeared under his leather trousers.

If Richelieu's callous tone sounded as false to Treville as it did to him, he didn't mention it.

"This isn't about my shoulder. This is about Labarge."

Richelieu paused. 

"Is it?"

"It is." Storm clouds gather in Treville's eyes as he caught Richelieu's gaze, but he made no move to leave the comfortable position he was in. 

_His foolish Captain…_ Richelieu started stroking the spot of silk under his thumb, feeling his thoughts drift away.

"What were you thinking, making him Captain?"

Richelieu blinked. "I was thinking…" He licked his lips, pausing. When he spoke again, he avoided looking at Treville's face. "That the musketeers needed to be taken down a peg."

It had made sense to Richelieu at the time.

"That wasn't the fight they agreed to!" Treville tried to sit up, using his uninjured arm for support, then gasped in pain. Richelieu held on to his leg to prevent further injury until Treville lay down again, breathing harshly.

"A Red Guard would have abided by the rules," he said, sounding strained, "and not dragged the fight out beyond first blood."

"Your musketeers knew the risk when they entered the contest. As they do every time they have duels in the streets - illegal duels, as is my duty to remind you. An offense punishable by death."

"I know. I was there when the royal edict passed." The passion had ebbed from Treville's voice. Richelieu was aware that the Captain knew why he had pushed for a more severe punishment for duellists when the respective ordinance had been amended a couple of years ago. Treville had never contested the Cardinal's reasoning, regardless of the musketeer's personal thoughts on the issue. 

Taking his leg off Richelieu's lap Treville said, "kindly bring me that bottle now, please," allowing Richelieu to stand and chase away the lingering spider-webs of thoughts featuring his dead brother. Richelieu had worked hard to secure the governorship of a prominent city for Henri, only for his older brother to lose it again – along with his life – to the blade of a jealous courtier who had expected to be granted that office.¹

Standing still for a moment, Richelieu examined the bottle, thinking about how Henri had considered buying a vineyard. 

The relative quiet that had fallen over the courtyard outside was usual enough to return his thoughts to the presence. It appeared as though the musketeers had taken to ignoring Richelieu's escort, possibly for the benefit of their recovering Captain.

"I can't believe you took that risk," Richelieu said as he filled a glass for Treville. He was not going to allow him to drink from the bottle in his condition.

"They're my men. I could have lost one of them."

Richelieu turned to look at Treville, lying on his pathetic cot half-dressed, his left arm in a sling. Now that he was lying down his open shirt had slipped further, revealing more of the bandages that barely covered the bruises forming around his shoulder. 

Richelieu exhaled noisily. He didn't say what he could have lost.

"Tell me you relied on the King loving you enough to end the fight before it could become worse."

Treville didn't reply but was happy to relieve Richelieu of the glass and bottle when Richelieu returned to his bedside. 

"You are going to drink like that? Lying down?"

"Thanks to your disciplinary lesson I have to."

Richelieu frowned but carefully helped Treville to sit up again before anything could spill. Throwing his head back, Treville took a large swig before he lifted his glass and sighed, silently asking for a refill.

"That good?" Richelieu scoffed, unsure whether he should be more concerned or appalled.

After a moment's contemplation Treville offered the glass to Richelieu who raised it to his nose first. The liquid smelled heavenly but bit his tongue when he tasted it, and he gladly handed the glass back to Treville, wondering if Treville liked it so much because he didn't feel the pain in his shoulder as much while his mouth burned.

"If you ever try to put my musketeers in a situation like that again, you will regret it."

Richelieu looked away. "If you think I particularly enjoyed watching you get beaten, you are mistaken."

"Good," Treville said. He still sounded unhappy but calmer. "I mean it. I will not tolerate any of my musketeers coming to harm over a bet."

Richelieu was less concerned about any harm done to the musketeers than the harm done to Treville, but, as the challenge had proven, the two were inextricably linked and so Richelieu decided to play along.

"I don't plan on hiring another brute soon," he quipped. He knew Treville was speaking from a very emotional place, and the realisation that perhaps, for once, so was he, stirred up all kinds of uncomfortable feelings. Just a couple of weeks ago Richelieu had sworn he would no longer make excuses for any man. His resolution hadn't even withstood the first test, and what was even worse was that Richelieu found that, sitting on Treville's cot, the captain's legs pressing against his, he didn't really mind.

"I promise," Richelieu added as Treville continued to glower. "I try to keep your musketeers as far from my mind as possible when they are not meddling in Red Guard business."

Treville took another long sip from his drink, but seemed appeased.

"What did your guards say when you nominated Labarge?"

Richelieu wrinkled his brow, baffled why Treville would care. "Their opinion didn't matter." If they cared, they should have stopped their old captain from making a fool of himself. "Nominating a champion to represent me was my choice."

"He _killed_ their captain." Treville's voice was as sharp as his drink.

" _You_ were the one who told me how irresponsible Captain Trudeau was."

"Because he endangered civilians by risking the escape of a known arsonist and murderer." 

And Treville expected him to feel sympathetic about that? Richelieu gave Treville a sceptical look.

"That Trudeau was a fool doesn't change the fact that he was their captain," Treville continued. "I presume you promoted him to that position for a reason."

"Likely." Richelieu gingerly retrieved the glass from Treville's hands and took another sip despite himself. The taste hadn't improved. "I can't seem to recall the precise circumstances of his promotion."

Treville stared at him. "You picked him! Your men looked up to him!"

Richelieu rolled his eyes. "You're being overly sensitive."

"I know about loyalty! I'm a soldier, too."

Richelieu grimaced bitterly. Another sermon on loyalty was just what he needed.

 _No person, no nation, no God._ Hadn't he made that his new creed? And yet Richelieu was, sitting on the bed of a man who wouldn't stop doubting him.

He looked at Treville, at his sling, at the faint traces of a spreading bruise peeking out from under the edge of the bandages. He looked pale save for the colour that alcohol and arguing had put onto his cheeks, but his eyes burned with an intensity untouched by the pain that had to be radiating from his shoulder.

Looking at him, Richelieu _knew_ why he had come here. Of course he knew.

The moment of fear that had followed the scream and the crunching of bones had made that shockingly clear.

_Don't let him die. Not him._

"You are different," Richelieu said. And wasn't that the sum of his troubles? From the first time Treville had stumbled into his life, shouting a war cry and brandishing a pistol at brigands, there had been no one like him.

Richelieu had had many mistresses since then – an obligation that came with playing the grand minister at court as much as and an opportunity to employ a fresh set of eyes and ears among the courtiers. At fifty Richelieu wasn't vain enough to believe that those young women kept offering their services merely because they couldn't resist his charms. 

Some of them had believed in France when they had entered his service. All of them had enjoyed the wealth and infamy that went hand in hand with the being the mistress of the First Minister of France.

None of them would have fought to defend him against brigands. None of them would have dared to speak up to him if they thought he had gone astray.

None of them would have looked at him with the same hopelessness as Treville had when Richelieu had accused him of not understanding him at the monastery when in fact Treville had been the only one who had guessed how close Richelieu had come to betray his principles for Luca's promises.

"Trudeau was nothing like you," he continued. _No one was._

"To your soldiers he was."

Richelieu looked up to find Treville glaring at him. 

"What do you think your regiment feels about your favouring a man who killed the captain they looked up to, over them?" Treville asked, his frown displaced by an incredulous look. "You put that man in charge of them and protected him from his just punishment for killing their leader."

"Unlike you, I'm not their captain. I merely pay their wages." But even as he spoke, Richelieu vaguely remembered the Red Guard who had spoken out against Labarge when Richelieu had ordered them to include him in their practice. 

Richelieu wanted to shrug. If that man or any of his brothers had been able to defeat Labarge during their practice match, he wouldn't have had to nominate Trudeau's killer, besides—

"I wasn't actually going to let Labarge walk free. I merely offered to spare him the death sentence. A man of his physique – imagine what a galleon worker he would have made before your recruit skewered him."

"You can't do that to your men!" Treville leant forward again and winced. Having put the bottle and glass on the floor before there could be a mishap, Richelieu slid closer to help Treville settle back down again. As he tugged at the pillow to make sure Treville was comfortable, he couldn't help but recall how Treville had done the same for him not so long ago. Treville had stupidly ridden out at night – alone – to an isolated monastery, all to fluff up his pillows and pass him a glass of water.

Perhaps they both needed to be more careful.

However, even as Treville lay back down reluctantly, he wouldn't stop frowning at Richelieu.

"How many of your guards joined because of who you are rather than how deep your pockets go?"

Richelieu rolled his eyes just to stop looking at him. He would have to die for Treville's stormy glare to stop having an effect on him. "Why don't you tell me?" 

"How many of them joined because you're a Cardinal and they believe in the sanctity of your office? How many joined because you're the King's First Minister and the president of his council? How many of them fight for _you_? How many of them believed in you and now feel betrayed?"

Only Treville could be so hopeful. So naïve. 

This reckless fool.

"I know, I know. They'd drink a cup of poison for me." Richelieu smiled darkly. "If my approval is so important to them, they could have tried earning it by not starting fights in the streets, Captain Trudeau included." 

Treville was silent for a long moment, giving Richelieu reason to hope he had calmed down. Fighting about Luca and the Comtesse de Larroque had been exhausting enough, but Trudeau? The Red Guards would be stronger without that kind of fool. Besides, how could Richelieu afford to care for his men's sensibilities when he couldn't even afford to care for his own?

That was why he had made this new creed, wasn't it?

 _No person, no nation, no God._ Except… except…

"They are my guards", Richelieu continued, swallowing the lump that had appeared in his throat, "not my sons. If they find fault with my patronage, they are free to leave my service."

Treville stared at him. "How do _you_ of all people not respect faith?"

"Faith in institutions! In God! In this country!"

Treville's lips parted, but a not a word slipped between them and Richelieu flashed him a dark look.

"Perhaps you should learn from that."

That broke Treville out of his stupor. "What?"

Richelieu breathed in deeply. 

_No person, no nation, no God._ Men – particularly soldiers – came and went, but it was Richelieu's responsibility to see to it that France endured – as it was Treville's. By fighting Labarge, by taking that risk Treville had stupidly endangered that responsibility for no other reason than pride and petty revenge. 

"You are the King's right hand," Richelieu said, "the captain of his musketeers. What if you had been killed?" The tourney grounds appeared again before Richelieu's eyes. He remembered the sound of Labarge's boot hitting Treville's shoulder, cut off by a cry of pain.

How often had Richelieu attempted to mock Treville for being sentimental? Now he had fallen into the same trap.

 _Deep breaths_. Treville was recovering and Labarge was dead.

Two thousand livres was a small price to pay for that.

Treville didn't think before he shrugged and paid for it as the pain made him grind his teeth. Richelieu lowered his eyes and took the opportunity to gather his hands in his lap before Treville could see them trembling.

What fools they both were.

When Richelieu looked up again, Treville had recovered.

"If that had happened, someone else would be captain now."

"Do you really think could be replaced you so easily?" 

It had been easy to hold on to his new creed in the short time that Treville had avoided him after their fight over Luca and the Cometesse, but now that Richelieu was sitting on this coarse, narrow cot he disliked so much, things looked very differently.

If only they could have been at the Palais Cardinal where there was proper furniture, things would look even better. There Richelieu could swathe Treville in silks and serve proper wine that didn't burn the throat until all thoughts of musketeers and Red Guards washed away. He'd take off the hateful sling that pride had put there, unwrap the bandages—

"Don't try to distract me from what you've done." 

Richelieu blinked as Treville pushed at him with his stockinged feet, realising he'd let his thoughts get away from him.

"Pardon?"

"You know what I'm talking about." Somehow Treville managed to roll out of the cot and get onto his feet with minimal groaning. "If you're so unconcerned about your guards leaving your service then you had better hope that's all they ever do."

Richelieu had to actively stop himself from rolling his eyes again. "I was exaggerating." Was he? It was true that he didn't treat the Red Guard like Treville treated his musketeers, but then it would have been difficult for anyone to match Treville's investment in his regiment. Richelieu couldn't decide whether that made him unfortunate because Treville took the slightest offence against his men very personally, or lucky because he didn't have to deal with more overly protective commanders.

Treville snorted and walked to his desk, looking for something before he turned around and picked up the bottle Richelieu had set on the floor. He winced as he straightened, a gesture mimicked by Richelieu as he eyed up the bottle. Catching his look Treville set it back onto the desk and sighed. 

The musketeers had better look after him until the pain from his shoulder abated.

"You don't understand."

"What don't I understand?" Richelieu straightened his robes as he stood up.

Ignoring any pain the movement had to be causing him, Treville whirled around to face him. "It's dangerous to treat soldiers that way!" The fire was back in his eyes and Richelieu couldn't tear himself away from his gaze. Beaten and bruised, slightly tipsy, his Jean was still a fighter.

"You're concerned?" Richelieu asked, stepping closer.

"You're playing with their loyalty."

"Won't you let it go?" Richelieu couldn't help but scoff. "You wouldn't have batted an eye if they had been injured in a duel with one of your musketeers."

Treville responded by grabbing Richelieu's necklace and yanked it to pull him close. Richelieu put up no resistance as Treville dropped the it again to grab his collar and kissed him, hard. 

Kissing back, Richelieu could taste the liqueur on Treville's tongue. He liked the way it burned him so much better now.

Richelieu moaned before he pulled back to bite Treville's lower lip. He tried to pull Treville closer before he remembered what a bad idea that was, causing Treville to pull back with a gasp.

"I'm sorry," he said, surprised at how hoarse his voice had become.

Treville breathed in deeply a couple of times, blinking away tears. When he was done he pulled Richelieu back against him for one more kiss, this time merely a brush of their lips. 

"That's still your fault," he said, indicating the injured shoulder with his head.

"I'm sorry." Richelieu smiled, putting his hands at Treville's waist where he could feel the taut outline of his body under his shirt. As he slowly traced a path with his eyes along Treville's throat to his chest, he remembered how Treville had danced around his opponent on the tourney ground. Richelieu was certain that if he hadn't stupidly let his guard down to salute the King, Treville would have won. 

His Captain. Still a sword master. Still making terrible, brave decisions.

"I will devote myself to make it better," he breathed.

Touching his chin, Treville made Richelieu look him in the eyes. 

"I'm not done with you," he said. "I'm not concerned for your guards. I'm concerned about you."

"You think my men would betray me over Trudeau?"

Treville sighed. "I think you should be careful," he said and kissed Richelieu again. In that moment, it was all Richelieu wanted, as Labarge, Trudeau and the musketeers receded far from his mind.

But of course, there could always be more.

"I've had enough fighting for a day," Treville said when he pulled away again, the warning tone in his voice was unmistakable – _be good or leave_ – just this time Richelieu was inclined to take it.

"What do you suggest I do to keep my men's faith?"

"Choose your next Captain more wisely. Someone more conscientious than Trudeau. Someone you would hate to lose."

"Oh, believe me, I hate having to find a replacement for Trudeau."

Treville growled. "Take someone you would mind losing personally."

"That sounds like a terrible attribute for a guard captain."

Treville gave him a particularly irritated look that missed its intended goal of chastising him, as Richelieu was still extremely aware of the hand on his hip. They stood close enough for Richelieu to feel Treville's breath on his skin as he released an exasperated sigh.

"You always find ways to make me worry."

"I am looking for a guard, not a friend," Richelieu continued, finding it increasingly harder to sound relaxed. The simple truth was that he had missed Treville over the past few weeks. The hand on his hip called for his attention like a fresh burn, and the wetness on his lips begged to be kissed away. He almost missed Treville giving him another warning look because he had been busy staring at Treville's mouth, so flushed and inviting.

"Fine," Richelieu said, swallowing. "I'll consider it." 

He almost stumbled forward when Treville moved back.

"Send me a shortlist as soon as you have one, I can help you choose the right man."

Somewhat perplexed Richelieu looked back at the cot. It somehow seemed much more attractive now that he wasn't sitting on it. "I was hoping we'd be doing something else before I left."

Treville regarded him in grim amusement. 

"Come back when I don't feel like throwing up on the floor every time I move."

_Oh._

  


* * *

  


1 Henri du Plessis, Marquis de Richelieu, was killed in a duel after the future Cardinal de Richelieu had managed to secure the governorship of Angers for him. His brother's death sparked Richelieu's life-long hatred of duelists, something that Dumas played off to justify some of Richelieu's distaste for the musketeers in his novel. 


	4. Chapter 4

"The musketeers will manage to impress his Majesty's guests even without my presence."

Richelieu sighed. They were standing in the palace gardens, having just bid their goodbyes to the royal hunting party and its musketeer escort and Treville was still acting embarrassed at the disappointed way the King had dismissed him in front of his guest when Treville excused himself from joining the hunt.

His Majesty had clearly been looking forward to show off his Captain's skill with a hunting sword in front of his new favourite and her father, but even the King had to accept there were limits even to Treville's power.

"I can't ride with my shoulder like this." 

Richelieu open his mouth briefly to reply with the first thing that came to his tongue. But he closed it again, instead choosing to look the Captain up and down with an arch expression.

"What?" Treville asked.

"I wouldn't want to upset your delicate sense of propriety with obscenities."

Treville briefly fluttered his eyelashes at the floor to hide a smile, but Richelieu could see a barely perceptible flush cover his cheeks. The sling still complicated things between them from time to time, but they had found ways to work around some of these obstacles.

"Let's get inside," Richelieu suggested with a smirk. "My office." 

Treville fell into step beside him as they walked towards the atrium that would lead them back into the heart of the palace. 

Captain and Cardinal had been working closely together in the weeks since the challenge to arrange the state visit of Count Mellendorf, a potential German investor, and their interactions had begun to flow in familiar patterns again, resembling what they'd had before Sistini had shown up. 

"So, you didn't manage to talk the King out of his bad idea."

Years of practise of controlling his body language under threat of death allowed Richelieu to keep walking without a break in his stride.

"What makes you think any idea the King had could have been bad?"

Treville shot him an annoyed glance. "The look on your face when you returned from the royal apartments earlier."

Richelieu deliberately looked into the air. 

"Tell me he isn't intent on making Charlotte Mellendorf his mistress?"

Richelieu adapted to the suggestion quickly. "I warned him there's no dowry attached to a dalliance," he said with a sigh, drawing a veil over his darker thoughts. "I can't allow him to ruin the poor girl."

"More likely you can't allow him to ruin her father's hopes for a profitable marriage and a lucky opportunity to tie her family's fortunes to a prospective French nobleman of your choosing, which would give him a vested interest in our military ventures?"

Richelieu gave Treville a long, hard look. "Don't pretend with me— You're thinking about that money as well, and the regiments it would fund."

"I can imagine the fuss the Grands will cause at the prospect of royal bastards from a noble mistress populating the Louvre before the birth of a legitimate heir."

"A valid concern." Even if this scenario remained a chimera for the moment, Richelieu couldn't help but frown. It struck too close to the concerns the King had raised when he had so callously argued why Charlotte Mellendorf would make a better queen than his Spanish wife. 

Gaston at the very least was guaranteed to make a scene over a royal bastard that could be legitimised to take precedence over the King's brother in line to the throne. Even should they be able to deal with the troublesome Prince once and for all – through disinheritance or death – Richelieu could just imagine the Comte de Soissons starting trouble in the provinces again if he felt similarly challenged by an heir from a more impure bloodline than he. And then there were King Henri's bastards – all of them grown and far better suited to raise an army to their cause than an infant.

"A shame," Treville said, exhaling a long breath. "Louis is happy around her, content." He looked into the distance as he spoke, a cloudy look in his eyes. The sun shone golden in his hair and Richelieu couldn't help but think that his Majesty wasn't the only one who had been increasingly happy lately.

He hated to tear Treville out of his reverie. "A shame indeed."

The Captain turned to look at him with an inquiring look and just like that the wistful air was gone.

"The King's interest in the Count's daughter is the main issue preventing me from suggesting a betrothal between her and Gaston," Richelieu continued. He had long sought for a way to return Gaston under his control. An arranged marriage with a German noblewoman would make him less attractive as an ally to the likes of the Duke of Lorraine. 

"Can you imagine Louis pining after Gaston's wife? Even if Monsieur ended up detesting Charlotte, he would be running to his mother for support at the affront." Marie de Medici would lose no time taking the side of her favourite son, and Richelieu didn't doubt that she would find a willing ally in the girl's embarrassed family. 

"In one action we would have turned a wealthy, neutral party into an enemy."

Richelieu didn't need to see the blood draining from Treville's cheeks to know that the Captain could imagine the eventual outcome of those events all too well. Seemingly ignorant of the Cardinal's gaze the musketeer started to rub an old scar on his wrist – a souvenir from Marie's civil war.

Not all of the scars he carried could be touched. 

"To come here at this time," Treville began, his steps slowing. "Not to forge a military alliance, but seeking a marriage. Looking at them you'd never think their countrymen are at war."

Matching his pace to Treville's, Richelieu walked a little closer.

"The city of Hamburg has remained neutral so far. They are well-fortified and sea trade has made them incredibly rich. The city is the most defensible fortress in all of the German states, perhaps in Europe. Even you might run into trouble trying to take it." 

Treville's eyes flashed for a second as if to say _that remains to be seen_ , and Richelieu made no effort to hide the smile that ghosted over his lips at the sight.

"The empire's armies avoid it," he continued, his face serious once more. "When they do come too close to the neighbouring villages, the city pays them comfortable sums to spare the surrounding countryside, so that it may continue its business in relative peace, while the rest of the German cities burn. A nation such as ours can only dream of being as financially secure."

"You sound envious."

"Envy is not a sin I'm prone to, my dear Captain."

Treville scoffed. "The Mellendorfs are eventually going to suffer from this war once the Austrians have run all their former trading partners and allies inland into the ground. Even if the city remains unmolested by armies it can't escape this war unscathed." 

"Perhaps. But if your position was strong enough to allow you to sit back while your rivals tear each other apart why would you risk your neck by choosing a side before you absolutely have to?"

Treville was quiet for a moment.

"I couldn't stand idly by like that." 

Cocking his head at Treville, Richelieu could barely hold back another quip about delicate sensibilities, but Treville surprised him.

"I won't believe you could stand by either. You wouldn't risk waiting so long to choose a side that the choice was taken from you."

Richelieu's spine tingled at the vehemence in Treville's voice. "Perhaps,", he said, looking straight ahead again. There were quite a few people at court who would have disagreed with the captain. "But then, I have an entire kingdom to take care of, not just a city. It's not as easy to put walls around a country."

"Believe me, I've noticed," Treville said and sighed heavily. 

Bringing their steps closer together Richelieu brushed the back of his hand across Treville's. The touch lasted only a moment as Richelieu was acutely aware of the palace guards found at every corner of the atrium, and the pair of Red Guards trailing them at a discreet distance. The Captain returned the gesture and sped up his steps, and soon they entered the wing of the palace in which Richelieu kept his office, escorted by the Red Guards.

"Right now we're not that different from Hamburg," Treville said, interrupting Richelieu's thoughts by following up on his previous argument. "We're paying others to fight the war for us, until either we or the Kaiser, or indeed King Philip, drop the charade and pick up arms."

When they reached the office, Richelieu interrupted himself to acknowledge the clerk filing paperwork in the antechamber and hurried Treville into the main office.

The King had given Richelieu these practical rooms for his private use. The office was nothing like his large audience hall and office at the Palais Cardinal, containing only a number of cabinets and a sturdy desk. Its only special feature was a secret cabinet Richelieu had installed a few years ago, but even that paled in comparison to the hidden passages in his palais. Unless he needed to pass some time at the Lourvre between royal audiences and council meetings, Richelieu mainly used the place for extra filing space. In fact, the place resembled Treville's office at the garrison for its sparseness, but of course lacked the crowd of raucous musketeers outside.

Richelieu locked the door behind him, taking a moment to gather his thoughts. 

"God willing, we won't have to arm ourselves until a sum equal to Charlotte Mellendorf's dowry will have found its way into our coffers."

"How do you intend to obtain that money?"

Richelieu had to mask another frown, as he was again reminded of what the King had told him earlier that day.

 _'I suspect those are the opinions of the wine, and not the King,'_ Richelieu had told him, despite the way his heartbeat had galloped faster at the idea.

The words that had followed hadn't been those of a drunk. Louis XIII knew he needed children as soon as possible. It had been a decade now since the royal marriage, and with each passing year the nobles not bound up by the court grew more restless. The King knew as well as his minister did that he needed the money Mellendorf's bank could provide in order to survive the strife that was certain to come to France – from within their borders as much as from without.

Troops had to be raised, weapons had to be forged, and money could be used to entice these restless French noblemen as effectively as foreign dignitaries.

"What is it, Armand?"

Richelieu paused, trying to recall the last thing Treville had said before he had been swallowed by the dark thoughts the King had awoken. As he put on a smile for his companion, those enormous thoughts returned behind the veil whence they had crawled from. 

To wish for the Queen's death… it was ludicrous, wasn't it?

Treville's hand was warm when he touched Richelieu's face, when he drew him in. 

"Did you hear me?"

Richelieu's smile grew softer. "Yes," he said, drawing a line across Treville's mouth with his fingertips. Treville's lips immediately parted, playfully encircling Richelieu's index finger. "But I believe we have more immediate plans to attend to right now?"

Treville took Richelieu's hand. "The King and Queen are absent," he said, "my regiment's ridden out." He returned Richelieu's smile, and, never breaking eye-contact, he kissed each fingertip one by one. "It looks like I have the time." 

Richelieu could feel him break out into a grin as they kissed. 

A knock at the door made them spring apart.

It looked like his secretaries were of the opinion that Richelieu did _not_ have the time. Their messenger poked his head through the door.

"Pardon my interruption, Your Eminence, but the chancellor has requested an audience within the hour."

Richelieu could feel his good mood run out of him like piss. 

"I'll meet him at the Palais Cardinal." This small chamber wasn't intimidating enough for Richelieu to effectively deal with that proud man.

The clerk left and took the warm atmosphere with him. As Richelieu turned back to Treville, he found his feelings reflected in the Captain's frown. 

"I believe the good chancellor wishes to inform me that unfortunately we don't have the money to expand the fortresses along the Somme as planned.¹ Or perhaps we have to decommission another regiment because its upkeep is too costly." And the noblemen in charge of that regiment would demand to be recompensed for the inconvenience.

Richelieu could feel another the cursed headaches coming that he never seemed to be able to escape for long. He sighed inwardly, and the dark thoughts behind the veil stirred – until Treville took his hand.

"Whatever it is, I expect to receive an invitation from you tonight. _To discuss it_."

Despite his best efforts to imagine the gloom the chancellor was about to unleash upon him, Richelieu felt his expression soften. Treville had proved himself his sole rock in this sea of madness since the ill-advised challenge.

"Of course."

"I'll head to the garrison then and see if I can find any more paperwork." Treville cast an unhappy look upon his injured arm as he spoke. Accompanying his Majesty and his guests was naturally more enjoyable than being reminded of his temporary disability, even if it meant having to listen to Louis and Charlotte exchange vapid compliments.

"There's more than one stag in the King's forests," Richelieu mused and Treville sighed deeply.

"Don't keep me waiting too long," he said and left.

After he watched the door close behind the Captain, Richelieu sank heavily into the chair behind his desk. If he didn't feel as tired he'd be cursing every member of the royal family from Louis to Marie in the same breath.

He had faith in institutions, Richelieu had told Treville a while ago. He had faith in God, the church and the crown. But people?

Maybe the chancellor was going to tell Richelieu that the King's troublesome cousins needed another increase in their royal pensions to keep them pacified. Maybe he would tell him that another regional intendant had gone rogue and destroyed the income of the country nobility he was supposed to tax. 

Richelieu closed his eyes, recalling the pressure of Treville's lips against his, the nipping of his teeth.

On his fingertips, he could feel the texture of every scar on Treville's skin.

There was nothing to it. A year from now or two, Treville would be going out to war again – and Richelieu knew with an absolute clarity that he wanted to provide him with the best army he could raise when that day came – if only the reluctance of the traditionally-minded French nobility to pay taxes on top of the expenditures of King and court would let him.

The King would insist on leading his troops himself, just as he had during every other campaign of the last decade. There would be no heir remaining in the capital to uphold the current order in case any ills befell his Majesty. There would be no one to carry on his legacy. There simply wouldn't be a legacy. And just like that the Bourbon King would fall, and everyone he had raised up – including Richelieu.

History turned on the smallest hinges.

 _'Better for me. Better for the country. All our problems would be solved'_ , the King had said.

_'Better if—'_

Richelieu got up, slowly, and walked to the door. Opening it, he left through the antechamber, ordering the nearest Red Guard to have his carriage readied. Back at the Palais Cardinal he found his chief secretary.

"Tell Milady she wants to speak with me."

The veil moved.

  


* * *

  


_'God equipped me with strength and made my way blameless.'_

In the coolness of his cellar Richelieu's thoughts flowed unoppressed by the summer heat outside. The tranquillity of the altar washed over him, cleansing and calming like baptismal water.

The atmosphere could make a man believe that here he could truly unburden his heart to God undisturbed.

Soft, like a breath, came the rustle of familiar skirts behind Richelieu. Milady's return could mean only one thing. 

_'You gave a wide place for my steps under me, and my feet did not slip.'_

"It is done." Even as he spoke, wonder colouring his voice, he kept his eyes focused on the altar.

_'I pursued my enemies and overtook them, and did not turn back till they were consumed.'_

There might be peace in Europe yet, in his lifetime, under the leadership of a strong Bourbon dynasty, and all it had taken was a single death. One death. 'One' was not a number that would cost Richelieu any sleep when compared to the number of Frenchmen who had perished in the last civil caused by a destabilised monarchy.

_'For you equipped me with strength for the battle; you made those who rise against me sink under me.'_

There was no answer and in the ensuing silence Richelieu could hear his heart beat. His hands trembled. However, somewhere, under the sarcasm on his tongue, under whatever this fear was that made his heart jump, there lay elation.

"Don't tell me you have qualms," he said, concentrating on the altar before him. "In your line of work, a conscience is not an asset," Richelieu continued. But although he remained kneeling, hands raised as if in prayer, pretending to be undisturbed, Richelieu could feel bile rise in his throat with every moment that Milady remained silent.

"An ordinary death does not concern me," she said, finally. "But this is no ordinary death." Her voice was so soft, she almost sounded wistful. 

"I am aware of that," Richelieu snapped, his voice low and rough.

It had to be done.

_'You made my enemies turn their backs to me, and those who hated me I destroyed.'_

So why did his heart jump?

When the gate opened with a squeak Richelieu remained still, frozen before the altar. When Treville gave his news, not a word dared to leap of the Cardinal's tongue.

His hands offering a prayer, he sat, his thoughts running on burning paths concerned with his own death. Only gradually was he able to rise to his feet against the protest of his stiffening body. 

Richelieu met Treville's grave expression with what he believed was composure. Treville himself looked grim, but collected. Only knowing him so well allowed Richelieu to read the anxiety in his eyes. 

Two of the musketeers that had accompanied the Queen to the healing waters were with Treville and they carried a note with them. It was a smoking musket, a trail reeking of the fox, and Richelieu took it out of their hands with a firmness that belied the state of his mind.

The lie came easily to Richelieu who had learned to wear masks even before he'd been ordained.

"When you find the person behind this," Richelieu said, placing all the firmness into his voice he could muster, "I will ensure the punishment is exemplary." 

Treville nodded, his clear, blue eyes so full of worry and hope. For a moment Richelieu saw his eyes shine with an imagined understanding that the Cardinal was on his side, that they would tackle this attack together like they had tackled so much else.

Treville still wore the sling that their shared pride had put there.

The punishment would indeed be exemplary.

_When young King Louis asked for the Queen Mother's reigning minister to be put to death, the King's loyal soldiers had shot him where he stood, surrounded by his favourites. The Captain of the King's guard had shot him right between the eyes._

Richelieu stood still as he watched the musketeers retreat. They took all sound with them, apart from his own harsh breathing.

_After they shot the Minister, they ran his body through with their swords._

A rustle of skirts alerted Richelieu to Milady's presence.

"You assured me Gallagher could do this."

_After the soldiers had buried Marie's Minister the mob dug him out again._

Richelieu found Milady huddled against one of the stone supports holding up the ceiling. She was all pale, white skin offset by wide, dark eyes. Her lips trembled when he grabbed her. But her obvious fear couldn't stop him from hurling accusations at her like bolts of lightning.

_When they pulled Marie's Minister out of the earth, they hung his pale corpse by its feet and hacked it to pieces._

Milady had been the one to suggest hiring Gallagher. It was she who had allowed the note to fall into the musketeers' hands.

_After they had defiled the minister's corpse, every man took home a piece._

Milady shrank before him, a fox cornered by the wolf. "I will see to it," she said, pressing the words through her flashing teeth above a bared throat. 

_Richelieu had driven by the mob as they desecrated the minister's carcass and they had made him halt his carriage._

"I hope so, because if this goes wrong you will pay a great price."

_Concini had the good fortune to have already been dead by then._

As soon as he released her, Milady hurried down the cellar, disappearing down whatever secret corridor took her furthest from him.

 _Cries of 'vivat!' had saved Richelieu's life in that moment._ Long live the King, _and a plague on those foul ministers who had led his gracious mother astray._²

Richelieu sank against the pillar, closing his eyes.

_'They cried for help, but there was none to save; they cried to the Lord, but He did not answer them.'_

  


* * *

  


"Should you not leave this to the musketeers?" Richelieu was accompanying Treville back to his horse, walking down the same atrium where they had discussed Mellendorf's fortune in only few days prior.

Treville had come to seek advice. To compare notes with his most powerful rival at court – and the only man he trusted to serve their monarch as devotedly as he did.

"Riding around Paris in your condition seems like a terrible idea, even for you."

Evidentially having more important matters on his mind than his continued health, Treville ignored his comments in favour of making Richelieu listen to the evidence that had set him hot on the assassin's trail. Bit by bit he came to the right conclusions.

"Murdering the Queen? Isn't that a bit extreme?"

"He's a very ambitious man."

As Treville questioned the trail of breadcrumbs that Richelieu had left for him in order to lead him to Mellendorf, Richelieu was again reminded that he couldn't possibly have suffered a fool so close to him for all these years.

If it weren't so terrifying, he might have been proud.

As he helped Treville mount, holding his calf as the Captain pushed himself onto the horse's back with one arm, Richelieu could feel how taut he was, how highly-strung. The Captain of the King's Musketeers was prepared to run any risk to save the Queen, including riding into battle at a time when it was the least advisable.

No one was around to watch them here, apart from Richelieu's ever present shadow, and as was the nature of shadows, she was incapable of any judgement. No one was there to hold the horse that was already becoming excited by its master's tension. Treville never should have gotten on it in his condition. He had stayed behind when the King had ridden out for his hunt for a good reason. 

If Richelieu had no concern but that for his own life the investigation could have ended here, at Richelieu's hands. A skittish horse and an injured rider were the ingredients for all kinds of accidents.

In a moment Treville sat firmly in the saddle, gathering the reins, the scene having played out in the only way it could.

 _No person, no nation, no God._ Richelieu's creed was a distant memory now.

His hand rested on Treville's knee, reluctant to let go while the Captain strove to be off.

Treville asked him to send the rest of the musketeers after him as soon as they returned with the King's party, and, the moment too tense for any goodbye that wasn't strictly business, he spurred on his horse, off to fight yet another man Richelieu had commanded to hurt his musketeers. 

A truly penitent man would have offered the Captain his Red Guard as reinforcements.

A wise man would have started praying that neither the musketeers or Treville ever returned.

The Cardinal watched Treville go, his heart beating in his throat.

  


* * *

  


They were alive. _They were alive._

The force of Treville's relief was overwhelming as he found Aramis and the Queen huddled in the cellar of the convent, shaken but unharmed.

He had arrived just in time. But someone was missing.

"Athos?"

There wasn't time for dread to take hold. The shot that followed caught them all by surprise.

Following the sound, Treville rushed deeper into the tunnels under the cellar, pistol drawn. This was not the time to let his emotions take over. He had saved the Queen. The mission was a success. He'd not loose Athos now. He'd be fine—

And he was. As Treville rounded another corner, blood rushing through his ears, he found Athos squatting at the end of a narrow tunnel at the side of a dying man. Two sets of pistols were lying at his feet. It didn't take much to guess that this man was their assassin. 

Treville watched them silently, not daring to disturb the moment. The tension that had driven him to sprint through this underground maze finally abated, leaving him to catch his breath. He could feel his shoulder ache, but the discomfort was worth knowing that his men were safe. As he beheld the musketeer gently talking to the dying assassin and stroking his hand, all Treville could feel was pride at the gentleness with which his musketeer treated his dying foe – even a villain like Gallagher. 

The serene feeling that overcame Treville when the assassin finally passed away and Athos rose to his feet to acknowledge him only lasted until they went to collect the pay that Gallagher had asked them to donate to the convent.

The contents of the lacquered box the musketeers found buried inside Gallagher's saddlebags wasn't much bigger than Treville's hands, but although its contents were meagre in money, they were rich in pain. Stitched into the silken cushioning inside was a blue flower. A forget-me-not, the symbol of lovers parting.

"This isn't the work of Mellendorf. It's something much bigger. That flower is the signature of a woman who works for the Cardinal."

Athos made a convincing case claiming that this woman, his wife, was an agent of the Cardinal's. One by one, he related the occasions he had run into her, from chance meetings to the Comtesse de Larroque's trial. 

On any other day, it would have been impossible for anything to overshadow the jaw-dropping revelation of Athos' marriage. But in this special case Athos' poor romantic choices managed not to concern Treville as much as his own. 

A few hours ago Treville had shared an update on their investigations with the Cardinal. He'd asked Richelieu for his opinion, asked him what he thought Mellendorf could gain from assassinating their Queen, and Richelieu had been very obliging although he had looked like death when he had helped Treville onto his horse. 

Foolishly Treville had assumed that Richelieu had been worried about the Queen, or that, maybe, he'd been worried about Treville, when in reality the cardinal had to have been imagining the noose tightening around his own neck. 

Treville's eyes passed over Aramis, the living memento of Richelieu's disregard for the lives of the musketeers. He swallowed.

Five years on and they were still chess pieces. 

With a soft click the filigree lock snapped shut.

Treville caught Athos' gaze. 

"When we return to Paris, I don't want a repeat of what happened between you and the Duke of Savoy." Not the least because Richelieu would fare even worse in a duel with the musketeers.

"He needs to be punished!" Aramis snapped. He looked ready to return to Paris with swords drawn, but although a dead flower created suspicion it was evidence of nothing.

Treville closed his eyes. "This," he indicated the box, "doesn't mean the Cardinal is the only man Athos' wife is working for." The musketeers desperately needed that reminder. Perhaps, so did Treville.

The last time Treville had begged Richelieu not to play this game, Richelieu had told him that it was no game, that all he did was necessary. Despite the way Treville had postured then, he had believed Richelieu. He wanted to believe now – there had to be a mistake, some hidden agenda he couldn't see – the piece that would make him understand why it had been necessary to push the Queen onto the field.

 _The Queen_.

Richelieu had tried to kill the Queen.

Of course Richelieu had been behind it all. Of course.

It was as though these past few months the whole world had warned him what a fool he was to trust Richelieu – first by Savoy's state visit, then by Marie's return. Richelieu hadn't put his duty to King and Queen first when Sistini had shown up, but Treville had been able to forgive even that.

But now?

It took Treville inhuman efforts to keep still as they returned to the convent. Richelieu had been the first person he had told of the assassination attempt. It had seemed natural to inform the First Minister and ask his advice. It had been comforting to speak to Richelieu so freely and think that they shared a goal. 

The Queen had been trapped in a convent besieged by assassins with very little protection – but somehow the situation had not been so dire when Treville had thought this exceptional, intelligent man was on his side, solving the mystery of the how's and why's for him. Saving her Majesty hadn't seemed like such an impossible task with Richelieu's support.

Now Treville had to tell the Queen that the most influential man in France had probably plotted to kill her.

Treville searched his mind, trying to think of anything Richelieu might have said or done that could have given him away – something, anything that could explain why he might have gotten involved in this madness.

Treville had believed that after the incident with Labarge he had come to an understanding with Richelieu about being more open to each other, but now this—?

How could he have been so wrong?

He picked up the box again, staring at the dead flower and wondering how in heaven's name they had gotten to this point.

  


* * *

  


1 In the 1630's the Somme marked the northern border between France and the Spanish Netherlands and was lined with heavily fortified towns. 

2 In history, Richelieu really did drive by Concini's freshly mutilated body. This graphic reminder of what his fate would be if he ever failed in his duty allegedly never stopped haunting him. 


	5. Chapter 5

"They know!"

When Richelieu returned to the Palais Cardinal he found Milady already waiting in his study. She looked as calm and collected as she would on any other day.

Her presence meant he didn't have to order the Red Guards to drag her here. It meant she saw him arriving directly from the palace, still shaken from Athos' accusations.

He quickly walked behind his desk so that he had something, anything, to grab hold of other than her neck. 

"Your husband's threats were insultingly transparent," he hissed. "He might as well have told me to my face that he knew who paid the assassin."

Milady made the mistake of rolling her eyes. "What can they possibly know?" 

"Fix this!" Richelieu barked, slapping his hands onto the desk in front of her. He relished the rush of power he felt as he saw her take the slightest step back. She looked still much too aloof. His hands still trembled far too much.

As Milady replied her voice sounded high but firm. "They know nothing. They may suspect your involvement, but what proof could they possibly have?"

" _You're_ going to tell _me_ ," Richelieu hissed and Milady's lips twitched.

"They won't divulge their secrets so easily."

"Then you better make sure they don't _divulge_ them to anyone else." 

Milady raised her eyebrows. "You want me to kill them?"

Richelieu froze. _That was what he had implied, wasn't it?_ It would solve their little problem. As he straightened, heart racing, something enormous moved behind the shadowed veil at the back of his mind. The King had swallowed his lure, and the Court had followed suit. Mellendorf was already condemned. The Queen alone knew the truth, but her demure pretence of ignorance at the palace had told him that she didn't yet possess the evidence to bring her accusations forward. 

Milady had done it so many times. Men and women from all spheres of life had fallen to her knife. Ambassadors and prostitutes. All she needed was another list of names.

Only the Queen stood between him and safety. Only she, and a handful of musketeers.

"I can do it for you," Milady spoke quickly as though she could tell that his hands now trembled for a different reason than anger and she wanted to make her point before either of could make up their mind. "It won't be easy. They'll expect me to go after them."

Richelieu stood motionless, thinking.

Just one more list. Four names. The Queen would never find any proof of what he had done without her loyal protectors. Four musketeers.

No. _Five._

Richelieu broke out of his rigour, sucking in his breath before he spoke. He refused to give in to bloodlust out of blind panic. There was no need to find out whether he could write that list – yet.

"Since your last attempts to organise an assassination worked so well for me, I'd prefer if you limited yourself to coaxing what information we need out of your dear _husband_ and his friends." He looked down and saw the sweaty prints his hands had left on the desktop. "Pray that this time you prove yourself a better spy than an assassin."

Milady flinched at the mention of her husband. "You can stop using that word to insult me," she said, but Richelieu felt an exquisite sense of satisfaction as he saw Milady's lips twitch unhappily, betraying her hurt. "There are no lingering feelings to stop me from doing what I have to." 

"I don't care about your feelings," Richelieu scoffed, drawing himself up to his full height. "Just do as you are told and don't return here unless I summon you." 

He turned to face the window, listened to her rustling skirts retreating, and wrinkled his nose. 

_Lingering feelings_. 

As he watched the autumn winds sweep through the foliage in his garden Richelieu considered that, perhaps, Milady constituted his biggest problem and that he should begin to think on how to replace her. Until, within the hour, the captain of his guard announced another visitor. 

The chill running down his spine chased away any lingering heat from his argument with Milady. 

_So soon._

If Milady had been wrong about the lack of evidence – If the Queen had already made use of the King's newly fanned infatuation—

Telling his captain that he would receive his guest in his private quarters, Richelieu fled his office, running for his dressing room to prepare for this special guest.

There, he had a servant help him put on the floor-length robes in cardinal red. Richelieu picked up his necklace and kissed the cross hanging from it. _Munire digneris me, domine_ , he prayed as he lifted the chain over his head, _ab omnibus insidiis inimicorum omnium, signo sanctissimae crucis tuae_ – deign thou, Lord, to protect me from all the snares my enemies have laid for me by the sign of thy most holy cross. The ritual prayer used to calm him – now it made him shiver. 

He arranged his necklace so that the golden cross lay prominent and shining on his chest. When the servant offered to stoke the fire in his rooms Richelieu sent him out, closing the servant's entry behind him before stepping into his study.

He was aware of his surroundings like never before as he approached the door through which his guest was to enter. The autumn sunlight that fell onto the desk by the window seemed unnaturally bright, forcing Richelieu to focus his gaze elsewhere. His eyes drifted across the soft carpet, all the way to the chaise longue in the corner. Richelieu had to look elsewhere. He couldn't afford thinking of the times that he had entertained his guest here – the same man now coming to—

Fixing his eyes on the double-door before him, his fingers found the rosary at his side. Richelieu would meet him standing, no matter what his purpose was.

In the Cardinal's dreams he was always prepared. In the Cardinal's dreams he never cowered like he imagined Concini had done. In the Cardinal's dreams he held his head high and his hands stopped trembling because he willed it so. Now that the hour of his nightmares had come he felt his heart beat so fast he thought it would bruise his ribs. In Armand's dreams his lover was at his side. In Armand's dreams Treville was not the one he had to face. 

In his home it was the Cardinal's right to demand any visitor remove their weapons before they were admitted into his presence. If he made use of this right now and his visitor refused the request, Richelieu would know beyond a doubt the reason for his appearance; for only in the name of the King could the Captain of the Musketeers deny this courtesy to his host.

Richelieu didn't demand anything. 

When Treville entered the sanctuary of Richelieu's private chambers, he entered them alone. There were no musketeers to back up their captain's orders. He wasn't wearing the formal, ornate breastplate, and carried no pistols, but he had brought his sword. Its sheath slapped against his legs as he walked as the sling prevented him from resting his left hand on the hilt. 

Despite all this Treville looked as solemn an executioner. There was no emotion to be read in his eyes.

"Captain," Richelieu said. He raised his chin up; to his regret, his voice sounded brittle. "I am surprised to see you here. How is your shoulder?"

Treville cast a meaningful look behind him, and Richelieu ordered the guards that had been escorting Treville to leave. 

Once they were alone, Richelieu began anew: "Your shoulder—" he said, but before he managed to finish Treville spoke.

"Who is Milady de Winter?" 

Richelieu's heart jumped into his mouth, preventing him from speaking. This was not what he had expected to be the first thing out of Treville's mouth. Once again he wondered at the incompetence of the woman whose skills until so very shortly he had held in such high regard.

"Milady is one of my agents," he said, not attempting to hide the surprise in his voice, praying it would cover for his initial speechlessness.

Treville nodded to himself, a deceptively calm gesture, and Richelieu had to remind himself that there was nothing he or the musketeers could possibly prove at this point.

"But you are not the only one who makes use of her services?"

Richelieu couldn't believe the hope that had sparked somewhere in his chest.

"I cannot say with certainty." 

"You don't watch your spies?" Treville's face turned sour, making Richelieu blink.

"Not as closely as you seem to assume," he said. It was a reasonable lie for a drowning man who had just spotted land. Treville was only here to question him, not to accuse him.

Heaven forgive him, but without lying he would never have survived a day in his position, let alone more than a decade. He took a deep breath. Just another sacrifice to keep the God-given order of this state – and only a minor one compared to what else he had done in the name of France.

He watched Treville watch him as the musketeer contemplated his reply, and was careful not to betray himself by speaking too soon or avoiding his searching gaze. He cursed himself for stopping to marvel at the handsome colour of Treville's eyes when that gaze could be his undoing, but it was a tried and true strategy for keeping calm.

"Did you," Treville began, his voice so low it sent a shiver down Richelieu's spine, "or did you not, command her to hire a mercenary to assassinate the Queen of France?"

What Richelieu had taken for hope now stopped his heart. He could just say 'no'. He could pretend to be outraged. With every moment that he hesitated he could see the blood drain from Treville's face, but no word passed from his tongue. He met Treville's gaze and held it until, after a long moment, he was no longer able to. He had seen the fury in Treville's eyes clouded over by a wet sheen, and realised that Treville would never have asked him this question if he didn't have reason to believe that what he was accusing him of was true. 

The moment for denials had passed.

"Yes," he said, inviting his doom. "I did."

  


* * *

  


Treville blinked away the tears that threatened to blur his vision. It took him a long moment before he sought Richelieu's eyes again. Where he thought he had been calm before he only felt cold and numb.

As though affected by the same chill, Richelieu pulled at his robes. They were a poor armour against the reaper he had invited into his home. He looked as grey now as he had on his sickbed at the monastery.

How different from that young bishop Treville had known, with his dark curls and hungry eyes.

How different from the man he'd first met so many years ago. Both of them had been headed to present themselves at Court. Treville had been about to present himself for the first time, having come to the King's attention for his courage in battle and Richelieu had been returning to report to his Queen. The young soldier, who had never seen the Queen's confessor before, hadn't had any idea that this captivating man was a spy, a politician, a practiced liar. To Treville, the bishop had been simply a clergyman lacking protection on the road – one with flashing eyes, sharp cheekbones and an even sharper tongue.

On that country road, spattered with mud and beset by bandits, Richelieu had been everything Treville had ever desired. Back then there had been no Red Guards to escort him. No Musketeers either. Just two young men who were determined to forge their fates in Paris and in doing so had stumbled upon each other. 

Richelieu's curls had turned grey and his features stood out even sharper, but he still had those same eyes – they were staring at Treville now, filled with a trepidation that made his heart race. How he wished he could reach out to that bishop, tell him to go down a different road.

For better or worse, they hadn't managed to untangle themselves for a quarter of a century. Now it seemed that connection was about to be violently cut – because Richelieu had conspired against their Queen.

"They are going to have you executed," Treville said. The words made him ache as though it was he who delivered the sentence. As though the words had become true only by being spoken.

He stood close enough to see the Cardinal's exposed throat move when Richelieu swallowed.

"You're not going to ask 'why'?"

"It doesn't matter." Treville wondered why he didn't choke on his words. They were enormous enough. "She's the Queen. There is no defence."

Richelieu met Treville's gaze, his pale eyes hardening.

"As I recall, you agreed that Charlotte Mellendorf would make a good match for Louis. And that the treasury could use her family's money."

"I don't remember our conversation turning into a cabal to plan an assassination!" Anger shattered Treville's pretend calm. "This is treason!"

"What did you come here for then?" Richelieu gestured wildly around the room, his cheeks darkening with anger. "What do you want to hear from me?"

"I wanted—" Treville felt himself sag. He looked at Richelieu. He was dressed as if for mass, but the wild look in his eyes ruined the grandiose image of his red robes. The cardinal's obvious shock didn't make him feel better. Richelieu had lied to him. While Treville had run himself ragged investigating the assassins despite his injury, Richelieu had done what he could to mislead him.

Treville had come to him for advice, for _help_. He had trusted him, trusted his desire to protect the King and Queen, but Richelieu had stood there watching as Treville and his remaining men had ridden off, not revealing a word about what they were going to face.

Richelieu hadn't asked Treville for advice before he had put his scheme into action. At no point had Richelieu thought to warn him. If he had—

"Why didn't you tell me?" Treville's shaking legs compelled him to pace, but sickness threatened to overwhelm him. "When we spoke about Mellendorf—"

Richelieu didn't let him finish. "You told me not to involve you in my _twisted games_ again."

"I could have stopped you!"

"Precisely."

Treville nearly choked on his spittle. He could only stare at Richelieu. "Was Mellendorf's money worth your life? The Queen's life?" 

Richelieu bristled. "This is about more than money!" He paused. "It has been _ten years_ , Jean, and still there is no sign of an heir. You heard the Count, his daughters are fertile."

"The Queen was pregnant before—"

"And lost the child. That was years ago. You should have heard the King…"

Richelieu broke off his line of defence and fell silent.

"What about him?" Treville rasped, feeling dread pool in his stomach.

Richelieu hesitated and Treville felt the chill at his neck and spine spread all over.

"What did the King do?"

"He voiced the thought – in my company – that if given a choice he would prefer Charlotte to be his wife in Anne's stead. Going so far as to rue the fact that Her Majesty was not dead."

Treville inhaled sharply. Only after the fact did he notice he'd taken a step back. "Don't dare to lie to me about this. Not about this!" 

When Richelieu looked up again, collected and serious, Treville couldn’t make out any hint of deception – but then, he hadn't seen through Richelieu's lies earlier this same day when he had been investigating the Queen's assassin.

"You have my word." 

The words made Treville's stomach turn. As often as Treville had claimed that the Cardinal was a notorious liar, he had yet to be disappointed in Richelieu's word of honour when it concerned vital matters of the crown. It was the one constant in the unending game of court politics Treville had found he could trust in. It protected their relationship in more spheres than that of politics. Consequently – cowardly – he asked for Richelieu to give his word rarely. He had been able to rely on it when the Duke of Savoy had almost been assassinated under his own nose and every time Marie had spun one of her intrigues. But now?

Treville didn't know which option hurt more – accepting that he was a greater fool than he had so far thought possible for believing _any_ word out of Richelieu's mouth could ever be trusted; or accepting that the Cardinal was telling the truth? That _Louis_ —

"When did he tell you this?" Treville asked, feeling every beat of his heart as it pounded against his ribs with heavy blows. The King was a good man at heart – _and he could not be defied_.

"After the banquet."

"He was _drunk_!" Sickness and relief rushed through Treville at the same time. "If I listened to every drunk word out of a musketeer's mouth – out of your mouth! I –"

"His arguments were sound. And our coffers are perpetually empty. Appeasing impatient noblemen, bribing our neighbours to keep the peace for us: our increased military spending does not come cheap. Not to mention, the King told me the Queen refuses to touch him, while Charlotte appeared interested in taking up the duties Her Majesty is shirking."

"And you immediately followed up those arguments by plotting a murder? She is _your_ queen, too!" 

She was still learning, but had it within herself to be a good queen. She didn't deserve to suffer for a cruel whim of nature—

"With all possible regard to your precious sense of honour, I simply lacked the time for a more elegant solution: Mellendorf was unlikely to stay his Majesty's guest forever and the Queen was expected to return within the week." 

"And the King might have changed his mind once she was back."

"I saw the opportunity and I seized it."

"The opportunity to murder a woman!"

Richelieu's frown deepened. "As you pointed out earlier, we are dealing not with the case of a simple, innocent woman. She is the _Queen_."

"Don't try this sophistry with me." Treville swallowed. "I'm not in the mood for it."

"She may not have a choice in these matters, but regardless of the reasons for her childlessness, she is putting us all at risk."

Richelieu's eyes flashed with fever. It was the same fever that Treville had seen drive Richelieu during the speeches he had given to convince the young King Louis to banish the Queen Mother. The same passion that had burned in his eyes when the young bishop had given his closing statements before the court that convicted Belgard of fatal neglect. The fire that had enabled him to make the Duke of Savoy sign a treaty that bound the Duke's legacy to France while his friend and chancellor rotted in a prison cell on the other side of the Paris. 

"If anything happens to the King before a legitimate heir is born," Richelieu continued, "this country will suffer even worse than it did during the wars before his birth. Some of the Grands will not wait until he is dead before they take up arms – unless His Majesty can secure his right to rule through a legal heir. You have seen the lengths to which the Queen Mother was driven by her greed for the throne. She is not the only one; Condé. Soissons. The Vendômes. Anyone with a drop of royal blood in their body is plotting the end of King Louis' reign while we speak." 

"And your first thought was _regicide_?" Treville began to wish they were sitting down for this conversation.

He had been lucky to grow up in Gascony, far from the horrors of razed castles, torched villages and marauding deserters, when Protestants and Catholics had laid waste to the rest of the country in their struggle for the French throne. No one had fought over the province of Treville's birth. Béarn had been protestant through and through. The stretch of dirt at the foot of the Pyrenees that Treville's father had bought for his family had mattered even less in the grand scheme of things. Not even their Béarnais king, who had once lived so close to the place where Treville was born, had ever returned to his old home after he had won the crown. 

Treville had never known war as anything other than a soldier, but Richelieu had grown up under less fortunate circumstances – in the heart of the Poitou, where the war between the two Christian Faiths had been the most heated. 

Treville closed his eyes. No matter how much Jean itched to touch the man standing trembling before him, the Captain of the Musketeers recoiled.

"Your excuses are nothing but that," he said. "Platitudes. We have lived with this threat since King Henri's death. If you wanted the Queen gone, you could have pleaded for an annulment of their marriage to your colleagues in Rome on the grounds of infertility."

"We did not have a choice! His Holiness is never going to accept responsibility for a breach in contract between the largest Catholic kingdoms in Europe. Besides, how do you think her brother will react if we depose of Her Majesty by sending her to live out her days in a convent in disgrace? Spain agreed to this marriage because they need a sympathetic influence on the throne of France. They will see Anne's exile as a deliberate act to prevent a Habsburg heir from ever taking the French throne through peaceful means." Richelieu's chest heaved with passion. "We are not yet ready for a war!"

"What do you believe King Philip would have done if your plot had succeeded?"

"Spain would never have been certain of my involvement," Richelieu said more calmly, straightening his shoulders in a transparent attempt to regain his composure. "This may come as a surprise to your royalist heart, but there are a great number of people who have a reason to see her dead. The Grands she won't ally herself with. The courtiers she snubs at every turn, because she is above their gossip. The protestants. There are yet nations who seek to ally themselves with France more closely. The King could have married an English princess if Marie had been less intent on ingratiating herself with our most Catholic neighbours in order to soothe her Christian conscience."

Treville sighed deeply. "And now you're going to make all of them believe that Mellendorf hired the assassin."

"Precisely," Richelieu replied in a business-like tone. "A German Count. Nothing to do with France."

"You are sending an innocent man to the block!" Treville growled, beyond care for propriety. "How do you plan to get his family's money now?"

"I don't. He was a victim of opportunity. It was either him or me." 

"He could have been our ally!"

"I had to act quickly!"

"And now you will have neither a new Queen, nor the Count's money! Tell me, what kind of advantage does the execution of our First Minister give us? The only ones who will gain from your death are Spain and the Grands!" Only as his ears started to ring Treville became aware that they had been shouting. He took a deep breath to steady his voice before he spoke again. "Did you think about that at all when you hatched this plan to safeguard the King's reign?"

Treville could see the edge of a headsman's blade flashing in his mind. He shuddered.

"Have you told anyone?" Richelieu asked, low and hollow. Before Treville's eyes, the First Minister of France had transformed back into the young bishop, trying his best to hide his fear as he looked for any means to deter his pursuers.

Treville almost answered without thinking, before he realised; Richelieu had planned to murder the Queen, and now he was asking who else knew of his plot.

The Cardinal's expression was unreadable. He stood immobile, frozen, pinioning Treville with his eyes; a pale spectre veiled in shadows.

Treville turned his face away briefly. The beautiful colours of the evening sun outside the window seemed to belie the ugly truths found in the study.

"To my knowledge, no one has told the King," he said. "Yet."

Not ready to meet Richelieu's gaze again he turned toward the fire, but even so he heard the Cardinal take an unsteady breath. 

"Then forgive me if I continue to protect myself."

"So you are going to let an innocent man die," Treville said. He stared into the fire and felt weary. "Again."

"I was prepared to sacrifice a Queen to safeguard the stability of this realm. What made you think I would have more qualms about a Count?"

"Remorse," Treville suggested although he grimaced while he spoke. 

"For what? My failure?" A pause. "You know we need financial aid. You know we need an heir."

"Not like this! I'm the Queen's guard, too – I will not stand by as she is assassinated! Don't ask this of me." Treville whirled around to face Richelieu. "Do not ask me to condone this murder!"

Richelieu met his stare head-on. Yet, after a moment, his expression softened. He had recognised the abyss yawning before them. "What else are you going to do?"

Treville swallowed. "My men know it was you." 

"All of them?"

The words Treville wanted to say stuck in his throat. Before him stood a man who commanded a web of agents; spies and assassins. Treville turned back to the fire, unwilling to let Richelieu see his face. 

"You know my answer." A cold hand was reaching for his heart, cold as the winter in a Savoyard forest. Cold as the grave.

"My musketeers told the Queen about your agent, Milady," he continued. "They investigate the incident on her Majesty's behalf."

Another pause. Behind him, Treville could hear the cardinal's robes rustle.

"And what evidence will they find?" Richelieu asked, his voice thin.

Treville hesitated. A flake of ash drifted out from the fireplace and into the room. As Treville watched the ash grow cold and dissolve on the ground he felt a strange kinship towards it.

"I will not tell them to stop." 

Turning around again, Treville found Richelieu sitting on the edge of the chaise longue. The stone-faced expression he wore made him look so much like the cardinal the courtiers feared and less like the man Treville had come to— what? Warn? Of his own men? 

Treville shuddered.

A foreign politician. A troop of musketeers. A king's hidden baby nephew. It always boiled down to one thing: duty had to come first. 

Never before had Richelieu failed to fit into paradigm.

"I will not betray my men," Treville pressed the words through clenched teeth. "I want to believe your intentions were noble. But I do not believe Her Majesty is a danger to this country. And I will not betray her either."

Richelieu turned his face away, staring into the shadows that grew ever darker before lowering his eyes. Unable to bring himself to move, Treville watched him in silence. 

Once, when they had both been young, he had thought _here's a man with a vision for a bright future_. A man who fought for something greater than himself.

How much future did they have left now?

The Cardinal cleared his throat noisily. "And when they come to you…?"

Treville took a deep breath, looking down the branching paths before him. 

"I will never tell anyone what you confessed to me." He paused, fighting for room in his constricting throat to force out the words. "But I cannot keep my men from their duty. " 

Richelieu closed his eyes for a moment. "I can ask nothing more of you."

Treville looped up at the ceiling. For once he felt tempted to beg for a divine intervention he did not entirely believe in.

"Armand … she's the Queen."

"I understand."

"You're ahead of me there." A bitter taste rose in Treville's throat, like bile. "Again."

"You once told me I knew nothing of loyalty." The ghost of a smile hovered on Richelieu's lips. "Perhaps you were right."

"Armand—"

"I misstepped," Richelieu interrupted, quietly, clinging to the cross on his chest. "It appears I will pay for it."

"They will execute you." The weight of the words in his mouth made Treville pause. "You'll hang."

In the twilight, Richelieu's lips curled. "They don't hang cardinals," he said. "Or traitors. I'll be beheaded."

"You think this amusing?" 

"Nothing about treason amuses me."

"How can you stay so calm?" Treville pushed away from the fireplace, hovering between it and the chaise longue, unable to take a step further. "You are going to be killed!"

Already he could see Richelieu stepping onto the scaffold, holding his head high while the people spat and shouted at him. Behind the figure of the condemned, Treville saw himself standing on the platform. 

"They're going to make me do it! I'm the one who is going to arrest you. I'll be the one who leads you to the scaffold!"

Richelieu closed his eyes. "You are right, of course. If only I had thought of your delicate feelings when I decided my cause to be worth my life."

"Stop!"

To his shock, Richelieu did.

"They are going have you executed," Treville repeated. Shaken out of his stupor he finally started pacing. "If the King will make your crime public." After all, Louis had to think of the public image of his reign. An assassination attempt on King Philip's sister committed by the King of France's First Minister, who everyone knew to be the true power behind the throne, could lead to a loss of face of unprecedented magnitude. 

"If there will even be a trial," Treville concluded, arresting his steps. "You remember what they did to Concini? Armand!"

Richelieu kept silent.

"They shot him! They took his body—!"

" _Be silent, damn you!_ I know, of course I know! _I was there!_ "

It was only in the silence following this outburst that Treville noticed Richelieu had started to shake. 

"You must flee." 

Richelieu looked at him, eyes wide, while Treville's thoughts raced along with his heart. 

"What about Avignon?" he suggested. "You went there before—?"

"His Holiness doesn't love me enough to risk the scandal of sheltering an attempted regicide from his rightful punishment." 

Treville made a small, dismayed sound. Richelieu was right. Should he seek asylum in Avignon, a papal enclave on French soil, the only thing he would find there was an assassin. 

"Then take your regiment and retreat to Le Havre. From there—"

"Are you suggesting I take a guard regiment to defend myself from the King? More treason?"

Treville fell quiet. 

"Think!" Richelieu snapped. How could the King allow the man who attempted to take his queen's life to live in exile? He would appear weak."

"He loves you." Treville grimaced imagining the anguish Louis was going to suffer once he learned what his friend and advisor had done. The Queen would likely be the one to tell him. Supported by the musketeers. 

Treville breathed in deeply. "Once you were gone—"

"His Majesty would refrain from sending hired killers after me, so his brother in law can do it for him?" Richelieu stiffened his spine. "I will not live out the rest of a miserable existence in fear of assassins."

Treville stared at him, frozen, unable to think.

"You would prefer death?"

"If the King is intent on my destruction," Richelieu replied, his face ashen. "If my treason should come to light."

Treville felt a chill crawl up his spine. "When— if my musketeers find proof…" He moved closer to Richelieu, gripping the top of the chaise longue tightly. "What then?"

Richelieu reached out a hand to grasp Treville's.

"You are going to do your duty. Wait for your musketeers to do theirs. When the time comes, I don't want you to interfere. You must not be tainted by this… affair. The King is going to need you by his side once – once I'm dead." 

His eyes stinging, Treville tightened his grip. He could see the Cardinal's lip start to shake. 

Sitting down next to him, he gathered Richelieu's hands in his lap.

"He cannot be allowed to show weakness," Richelieu continued. "I will not ask you to protest…"

"… when His Majesty orders my musketeers to kill you." 

Treville pressed against Richelieu's shivering side. Richelieu leant against him.

"When Concini died… my agents informed the night before his summary execution that the King had ordered his death." Richelieu rested his head on Treville's good shoulder and closed his eyes, lost in the memory. Treville put a hand in his hair, running his fingers through the soft curls. 

"I didn't warn him," he sighed. "I needed him gone from the council. That night, I slept like a new-born babe."¹

Treville angled his face to nuzzle his hair, taking a moment to digest Richelieu's confession. 

"You are nothing like Concini," he said quietly. "He was a parasite, who cared for nothing but increasing his wealth and titles." Treville found it hard to even recall his face. Wherever he could, Concini had shunned the few men who had been foolish enough to endear themselves to the child-king he and the Queen Mother had worked to keep from claiming his throne. 

"France didn't suffer anything through his loss." 

At his side, Richelieu shuddered and Treville sighed.

The cardinal was nothing like Concini. Except for the fate he had brought upon himself. 

They sat in silence for a while, Treville clutching Richelieu's hands, feeling Richelieu's shuddering breath against his neck. Treville couldn't recall them ever having sat together like this before.

Running his thumbs over the back of Richelieu's hands, he cleared his throat.

"Are you going to try again?"

Richelieu's eyes fluttered open. Treville thought he looked sick. 

"That has been made an entirely academic question by now." The Cardinal kept his voice steady but quiet. "My scheme has failed, Her Majesty is once more safe and secure in the King's affections, and there is no cause for me to act."

"But if that were not the case, you would?"

"With no prospective replacement in sight, removing her would make the King's situation worse, as it appears Charlotte Mellendorf has lost her appetite for a crown."

Treville grimaced. He would have preferred not to be reminded of the girl's father languishing in the dungeons of the Bastille. He could feel his heart shrink.

"But if there was someone else, you would."

"Yes."

Treville's eyes stung.

"I can't stop my men from investigating," Treville said after a pause, his tone resigned, lacking inflection. "If I try to talk them out of it, they are going to wonder why." 

Next to him Richelieu sat up again. Robbed of the body pressed against his side Treville felt cold. By now the sun had disappeared from the window and the room had grown dark.

"Of course," Richelieu said. " _You_ cannot stop them."

Casting a glance at the Cardinal's face Treville found it blank. His grip on Richelieu's hands slackened. 

"As their Captain, it is my duty to protect them." He thought he could feel his left shoulder ache.

"I am aware of that." Gently, Richelieu extricated his hands from Treville's.

Treville blinked away the wetness pricking at the corners of his eyes. 

"I don't want you to die," he said.

"It may surprise you to hear it, but I don't particularly enjoy the prospect of dying either." Richelieu's voice shook, sounding small. "But I'm afraid Her Majesty will see things differently."

The thick upholstery dipped and rose as Treville got up, moving to stand in front of Richelieu. He remained there for a long moment, impulse gone, his fingers twitching at his side, undecided.

Kneeling down, he placed a hand upon Richelieu's thigh, hoping to put the same intensiveness into his gaze that he poured into his voice. 

"Throw yourself at her mercy." 

The suggestion did not meet its desired effect. Richelieu stared at him wide-eyed.

"Have you forgotten I sent assassins after her?"

"Your intention was to protect the King, to protect our peace. She will understand."

Richelieu continued to stare. "Even should she believe me, do you really think she will wait and see if I try again?"

"Tell her what you told me! That she is safe. That you have no reason left to harm her."

Richelieu's expression cooled from one of shock to a carefully kept mask. Treville could feel his heart in his chest. 

"I'm afraid I don't share your trust in Her Majesty's cool reasoning."

"Try her." Treville tightened his grip on Richelieu, fearing otherwise to be swept away by his racing thoughts. He lowered his voice, looking up into Richelieu's eyes. "For me."

He thought he saw something in Richelieu's gaze waver. The Cardinal turned away.

"I'd rather take my chances with your musketeers."

Treville shut his eyes.

"I'm trying to think of a way to save your life! All _you_ are going to manage by hiding in your palais is getting yourself killed!"

Richelieu's fingers wrapped around Treville's wrist, gently pulling away the hand clutching his knee. 

"I am not caught yet."

"I told you—"

"The hounds have picked up a scent, and unless I can throw them off, I must decide how to deal with them." 

If Treville hadn't frozen, he would have taken back his hand himself. 

"They are my men," he repeated, enunciating every word. The cooling ash in his stomach threw up one last spark. "This is your mess," he pressed out, breathing heavily to prevent his voice from choking up. "You need to fix it."

"My mess?" Richelieu's lips parted to say something else, but he evidentially thought better of it. Less inclined than Treville to argue in circles, he turned his gaze towards the shadows in the nearest corner of the now half-lit chamber. Treville couldn't see his expression, but he sounded strained. "Perhaps it would be better if you left now." 

When Richelieu turned back a curious expression stole itself onto his face. Not quite bitter. Not quite resigned. Treville thought he looked expectant of both. 

"After all," Richelieu concluded, "you have your loyalties to protect."

Treville stepped back from the chaise longue, and dropped his hands.

"I'm going to get a drink." 

He was going to drink until he fell over.

His feet carried him towards the door, and Richelieu made no move to follow him.

Treville recalled arriving here overwhelmed with anxiety. He had headed here straight from the garrison, where his men had been trying to piece together how and why a Cardinal would hire a mercenary prosecuted and exiled for his Catholic faith in his home country to attack a convent in order to assassinate a Catholic Queen. He had listened to them imagining how they would punish Richelieu—

Treville recalled his relief at finding his men alive in the convent's cellar. Rescue had arrived almost too late. 

Richelieu's hired assassin had almost succeeded in killing them. Now his men longed to return the favour.

"Jean?"

Treville stopped in the doorway, and looked back over his shoulder. 

Richelieu still sat where Treville had abandoned him. In the half-light his robes of office called to mind the image of the powerful First Minister. But it couldn't hide his dishevelled hair, the way his shoulders slumped, or the trepidation in his eyes. 

Once, Treville had thought of Richelieu as the only man who he trusted with the future of France, and not _despite_ the Cardinal's ruthlessness. When they had been young, Richelieu had never mentioned this future would be paid for in the blood of babes and their mothers, Queens and musketeers.

Here he was – sitting in darkness, dishevelled, anxious of what the next day might hold – still trying to carve a future. He was still walking a muddy road beset by bandits.

Treville tried to speak, opening and closing his mouth several times before his tongue obeyed him. "The musketeers want to set a trap for Milady and you," he said quickly.

Richelieu's voice was calm, but Treville could see the surprise in his eyes. "What are you going to do?"

Treville looked back at him through the drops of mist clouding his vision. He left.

  


* * *

  


After Treville left Richelieu's chief secretary had reminded him of the work that was still to be done. Richelieu hoped the presence of his staff might keep his mind focused, but he couldn't stop imagining the traps the musketeers might lay out for him. Would they be violent? Would they come into his palais, or wait for him to take a stroll as the King's Guard had once done for Concini? 

_The Captain of the King's Guard hadn't needed evidence of treason to kill Concini. Just an order from his King._

It was these kinds of thoughts that accompanied Richelieu as he spent the rest of the night alone. Once he had extinguished all but a few of the candles and knelt down for his midnight prayers he found no peace. When the Cardinal closed his eyes to seek communion with God, he was unable to empty his mind, finding it full of horrors. Of the red-painted interior of a dark carriage. Of a clamouring mob blocking the bridge he tried to cross, dragging and tearing at a corpse.

_When young King Louis had ordered Concini's removal, the Minister had been shot between the eyes by the Captain of the King's guard._

As Richelieu went to bed alone that night, he wondered if Treville would ever return to him for any other reason than to do his duty.

  


* * *

  


1 According to one of his biographers, Richelieu put the note that informed him of Concini's imminent murder under his pillow as he received it shortly before going to bed. Reportedly, he slept remarkably well that night. 


	6. Chapter 6

Even though dawn came without threats of arrest, Richelieu went to court for the royal morning rituals with snakes coiling in his stomach. Any palace guard or musketeer he encountered might carry his arrest warrant. Overnight, the royal court had stopped being his kingdom.

 _'The King trusts you implicitly,'_ Milady told him as he had warned her of the threat now revealed to him. Her reassurances didn't stop his breakfast from tasting like ash, or the visions of a dismembered corpse from returning when he drove to the Louvre. 

The King's council met as it did every day. The question of what was to be done about the deceitful Count Mellendorf constituted the only new topic. Although there was no date set for a trial, the King wouldn't hear of a pardon. He considered the crime committed unforgivable.

_'To go against you without tangible evidence would be suicide.'_

After the council meeting had concluded, Richelieu found himself in a familiar argument with the King over the wishes of petitioners and unruly noblemen like seemingly every day as they walked back to the royal apartments. However, Louis' ideas to increase security at the Louvre and around Paris dominated their talks.

"I want more musketeers stationed throughout the city. An entire company if that's what it takes." 

Richelieu gnashed his teeth at what that would cost the treasury. If his sense of humour hadn't been buried by visions of Concini's mutilated body, he might have laughed at the irony of what he had caused.

"I am sure you can invent another tax that'll pay for it, Cardinal."

Richelieu suppressed a sigh and reflexively looked to the man at the King's other side, but Treville didn't meet his eyes.

 _'They can't accuse a Cardinal of a murder without consequences.'_

"The people will be thrilled, Your Majesty," Richelieu muttered, failing to sound mirthful.

_What would have happened to Marie de Medici's First Minister if he hadn't been lucky enough to be shot to death by the Captain of the King's Guard before the enraged citizens of Paris had gotten hold of him?_

"I'll leave the details to you," the King continued as though he hadn't heard a word Richelieu had said. "Captain Treville can tell you what we need."

Treville bowed his head, not saying anything as the King left them outside his private suite. They were alone apart from the inevitable palace guards and the royal servants. Richelieu had hoped they would gain the opportunity to have a private conversation but when he looked over to him, Treville kept his eyes fixed on the door the King had disappeared through.

Richelieu swallowed. He felt cold and tired, as though he was bleeding out from an open wound. Moving closer, Richelieu could feel the heat radiating off Treville. If he moved just half a step to the right, their hands would touch.

"This matter would be best discussed over dinner, don't you think, Captain?"

Treville finally met his eyes. He wore the same grim mask he had put on when he had arrived in Richelieu's study the previous day. "Simpler if I send you a note, Your Eminence. I doubt I'll find the time for a long meal in the near future. This matter is going to keep the garrison busy," Treville said, turning to leave, "and I should be returning there now."

"Perhaps another day," Richelieu suggested, trying to ignore the stabbing pain that had returned to his chest. He did not enjoy the prospect of spending another night alone, save for the company of his nightmares.

Treville hesitated barely a moment before he continued down the corridor.

"Perhaps."

The next day, when he arrived at the Louvre, Richelieu found that Treville had excused himself from court on account on his shoulder giving him trouble.

The day after that, before dinner, Richelieu sent a note to the musketeers' garrison and received a reply saying that Captain Treville was unavailable this evening, as his physician had given him a strong medicine against the returning pain in his shoulder.

The day after that Richelieu sent no note. 

The following night he received a message from the garrison asking him to order Milady to change residence before the end of the week. Richelieu didn't ask why, he could guess.

When Treville returned to court he was at the King's side just as before, but he didn't talk much to Richelieu and was never found alone. At night, Richelieu went to bed alone, and dreamt of Concini.

* * *

Richelieu expected the trap from the moment d'Artagnan first mentioned Treville's name:

"Treville has a letter signed by Gallagher, implicating you."

He kept his face immobile. If there _was_ a letter he would have known. A week ago Treville had pulled him to the side after a council meeting. He tried not to remember the disappointment that had taken hold of him when Treville had walked away from him just after delivering his message: 

_'We are going to set a trap for Milady. She is never going to trust Athos, but d'Artagnan has a way to get through to her.'_

If there was a letter Treville would have warned him.

"Why hasn't Treville produced it already?"

"He's waiting to condemn you at Mellendorf's trial in front of the king. That way no one can suppress the evidence."

It had been three months since the musketeers had returned from the convent, but Milady was still here; still alive, still free. She was standing in front of Richelieu's desk, fiddling with the small heart pendant hanging from her choker, and darting glances to Richelieu and d'Artagnan in wide-eye agitation.

_'D'Artagnan has a way to get through her.'_

Treville would never allow Richelieu to walk into a trap. He would give him another chance to run first. If their conversation weeks ago had made one thing clear it was how much Treville abhorred the thought of sending Richelieu to the scaffold.

Unfortunately, Treville had equally abhorred the thought of betraying the details of the training mission in Savoy to the Duke, but still passed the required documents into Richelieu's hands.

Treville did his duty, even if it meant cutting out his heart. Richelieu had called him a fool for his honour, and naïve for his zeal, but in truth Richelieu knew that Treville's strong adherence to these principles had saved the Cardinal's plots – and his head – countless times. Until now. 

Until Treville had spent three months barely talking to him.

Richelieu looked up into d'Artagnan's determined eyes and searched for the lie.

 _Treville had not known for certain that only one musketeer would return to him from Savoy_ , a voice in Richelieu's head objected.

_Treville had spared Marie's grandson even when reason had demanded the child die._

Treville's submission to duty at times only went so far. Occasionally, duty failed to silence the conscience he clung to so passionately.

 _Why shouldn't he have made an exception for Richelieu, too?_

D'Artagnan had no reason to believe that Richelieu would have any qualms about taking the life of the young champion who had saved Treville from Richelieu's own folly so recently. The musketeer could be making up any part of his tale in the hopes of saving his skin and exposing Richelieu in the process. 

Or, d'Artagnan could be making up only Treville's involvement. 

Perhaps Treville didn't know about the details of d'Artagnan's scheme. Richelieu's heart beat faster at the thought that Treville could have done something to earn his musketeers' suspicions. Or perhaps he had ordered his men to keep him in the dark until they had found a way to make either Richelieu or Milady confess.

Even if Treville hadn't betrayed Richelieu, it did not mean there was no letter.

The Cardinal turned his eyes on Milady, who stopped her fiddling, freezing like the rabbit before the snake.

"Tell me you weren't foolish enough to mention my name to Gallagher."

Milady didn't answer.

  


* * *

  


There had been no letter.

Sinking onto his knees, the irony was not lost on him that he was essentially doing what Treville had begged him to do from the beginning. He was throwing himself at the Queen's feet, not begging, but still hoping for mercy. 

As he bowed his head in supplication he imagined a draft of air brushing his neck. He envisioned the headsman behind him readying his sword for the strike. 

Looking into the face of the woman he tried to kill posed no difficulty. There had never been any love lost between the unscrupulous First Minister and the gentle Queen who frowned at even her husband's innocent love of hunting. There was nothing to gain in pretending he felt remorse, particularly not after she had overheard Richelieu confessing his motivations to the musketeers, and he met her stare feeling nothing beyond the dread of being caught. It was Treville whose cold, disappointed expression made him flinch. 

Magnanimously having spared Richelieu's life at the end of her speech, the Queen left without sparing him a second look. 

As Richelieu pulled himself back onto his feet he met the sneering looks of the musketeers without flinching. He gave up Milady without allowing his voice to shake. They were too nonchalant about Athos' demise. Something was wrong but it wasn't his concern anymore, it was Milady's mess now, and how did she concern him anymore? She was the root of his troubles, and Richelieu would not waste another thought on her. He concentrated on looking the three musketeers in the eyes with all the coolness he could muster and just breathed – in and out – deeply, unhurriedly. He did not look at Treville again, but when the musketeers finally walked away he could feel his cheeks burn.

Rushing out of the church without looking back, Richelieu snapped at his men to have his carriage be made ready. Once outside, he shook off the hands of the Red Guards who offered to help him into the carriage along with swearing swift retaliation against the musketeers. He wished they wouldn't try to speak to him.

As he sank into his seat heavily, having snapped at the guard who tried to take the seat opposite him, he noticed that his hands were trembling. The carriage started moving, headed for the Palais Cardinal, and as Paris rushed by and Richelieu became more aware of where he was and what had transpired did the realisation sink in of what he had been spared from. With the awareness of his escape spread the awareness of his humiliation. 

He immediately regretted having looked out of his carriage at all. As he retreated to the Palais to lick his wounds, life in Paris moved on as though its foundations hadn't just been shattered. He heard one of his guards speak to the driver and started phrasing the order for his Captain to sack the men who had accompanied him to this ill-judged meeting with d'Artagnan's friends.

They had seen him kneel.

Once arrived at the Palais, Richelieu retreated to his study wordlessly and locked himself in. Unable to sit down, he started pacing, driven by the exhilaration of having been spared and the anxiety of what was to happen next.

He should see Treville. 

Richelieu stopped. 

It was too likely that Treville was with the Queen, congratulating her on her exemplary mercy. Richelieu was damned if he ran after her, no matter how much the memory of Treville's steely looks unnerved him. Had he not done what Treville had wanted? Had he not explained himself to the Queen as Treville had asked him to and reaffirmed his vows of loyalty? The affair had been resolved.

Despite all that Treville had looked at him in that resigned way and Richelieu could not imagine why. The musketeers were unharmed, save for what they had done to each other as part of their scheme to trick him into a confession. And had Richelieu not given up Milady freely?

A knock at the door announced the new Captain of the Red Guards, Cahusac. It took a moment for Richelieu to remember what he had wanted to see him about.

"You sent for me, Your Eminence?"

Richelieu had chosen him as his captain based on Treville's recommendation, and so far Cahusac hadn't given him reason to regret that decision. Treville knew about soldiers. Cahusac was diligent, discreet, and from all Richelieu could tell the men respected him. 

The same men who had rushed to help Richelieu up, offering to pay back the musketeers' insolence. The men Richelieu intended to sack. 

He remembered the conversation he had had with Treville following the duel with Labarge. He remembered Treville asking him to consider how many men had joined the Red Guard based solely on who it was they would be serving – not any cardinal, but him, Richelieu.

As Richelieu looked into Cahusac's expectant face, he remembered how Treville had told him that evening that he knew nothing of loyalty.

"Please find out where Captain Treville is, and when he is expected to be back in his office."

His guards could keep their posts. Unlike Milady, they at least got the job done. Besides, men still in his employ had much less reason to run their mouths about matters that they should keep to themselves than men sacked in anger.

Perhaps now that the affair with the Queen was resolved it was the right time to consider changes to how things at the Palais Cardinal were run.

Cahusac bowed – "Of course, Your Eminence" – and left

Richelieu watched him go, but his restlessness soon returned and he doubted he would be able to shake it off entirely before he had spoken to Treville. But as he had to wait on a word about Treville's whereabouts and was loathe to run into d'Artagnan and his friends so shortly after the scene at the cathedral, Richelieu decided that absorbing himself in the familiarity of work would be the more productive thing to do. 

The ongoing negotiations with their Swedish allies, the constant struggle to against the nobles Richelieu was trying to bribe into tearing down their own fortresses in order to eliminate potential nests of rebellion – tasks that had plagued him day and night for years now felt to him trivial and familiar compared to the anxiety of the past few weeks. Expanding on his promises to the Swedish ambassador was as engrossing as issuing new threats against the Duchesse de Troyes, whose excuses for holding on to her old donjon had finally run out. 

Soon he was signing papers and dictating letters; directing his staff without even needing to look up from the paperwork on the desk before him. The familiar routine of work came to him easy as breathing.

Until a guard arrived with a summons from the King.

  


* * *

  


Richelieu felt as though someone had pulled the rug from under his feet when he saw the King's grave face. Had the Queen gone back on her word? Had she realized her threat would turn into a bluff as time passed, since she still lacked tangible evidence of Richelieu's involvement in the assassination?

The announcement of the Queen's pregnancy took him entirely by surprise. He suddenly understood her threat and the timing of his forced confession. With a potential heir on the way, the Queen had something to bargain with should she ever try to convince Louis of what Richelieu had done.

Only the King's beaming smile made him believe that Louis would not follow the happy announcement by ordering his arrest.

While the assembled court was busy clapping, Richelieu took the opportunity to steady his frantic heartbeat and wondered if he had Anne to thank for this prank that had made him think his time had come. She certainly looked entertained.

He sneaked a glance at Treville, who looked as pleased as his Queen. Whether it was solely at the Queen's news or something else Richelieu didn't dare to guess, but the shy smile that used to strike a spark deep within him now woke a chilly sense of foreboding at the back of his mind. Treville looked as though he didn't care what had been done to the cardinal.

Richelieu could not afford to let it affect him now. Aware of the role he had been assigned, he dutifully praised the Queen's mercy as Count Mellendorf's pardon was announced. Once the court was dismissed and the royal couple retired, Richelieu waited until he was one of the last to leave, to avoid the impression that he was fleeing the scene of a new humiliation. 

The Queen had won a single skirmish, but Richelieu was still in the King's favour, still First Minister, _still alive_. He had lost nothing apart from three months' worth of sleep that he had spent haunted by nightmares – nightmares that were finally over now. He was safe.

When he finally left the audience hall he immediately came across Treville addressing a group of musketeers that flocked around him like sheep. As soon as the captain caught sight of Richelieu, he dismissed his men. 

"Cardinal. We have something to discuss." Treville looked as serious as on the day Richelieu had believed he was going to arrest him. "In private."

"My office, please," Richelieu offered haltingly. His throat had turned dry. Richelieu wished he could talk to him as freely as he had intended, but he also wished he hadn't seen his smile during the audience.

Side by side they headed for the small office Richelieu kept at the palace, much like the last time they had made use of it after the fateful banquet with Count Mellendorf. Back then, Richelieu would have tried to subtly brush up against Treville as they walked. Now they walked a foot apart. 

That same dark sense of foreboding he had felt earlier returned to Richelieu as they stepped into the empty office, and he immediately chided himself for his foolish fears. Treville would drop the act now that they were alone and all loose ends were tied up. Treville would push him against the door and kiss him in relief, and Richelieu would happily forget the past three months of tension between them. In the past weeks he had longed for his lover's presence as much as he had dreaded the Captain's distance. That was over now. The nightmares and the silence could all be washed away with a single touch.

But by the time Richelieu had closed the door behind them, Treville had walked to the other side of the office, as far away from the cardinal as possible, and Richelieu couldn't help but feel betrayed. He had confessed. He was truly penitent for causing Treville pain. He had sacrificed his top agent to the musketeers. What else did Treville want?

"The Queen is with child," Treville said. 

Richelieu went numb as he recognised the beginning of a new argument. 

"It appears to be so." He would have shrugged, but expected that Treville would take the gesture badly.

They hadn't had a proper private conversation since Treville had confronted him at the Palais Cardinal three months ago. Entering another argument about the Queen now that the matter was finally resolved was the last thing Richelieu wanted to do. He would so much prefer to cross the distance between them and to kiss Treville. More than that, he wanted Treville to come to him, to _be_ touched and to finally come to rest. For months he had endured a state of uncertainties, of existing between the threats of the musketeers and the memory of Concini's murder. Now he wanted nothing more than to feel his physical body again instead of this ache. He wanted to _be_ and not to have his every thought controlled by anxiety anymore.

Treville had other ideas.

"You were wrong about her!" he snapped. If Richelieu didn't feel so tired, he might have flinched.

"You would have taken her life needlessly!" He took a step towards Richelieu but stopped short of touching him. "If you had told me what you planned, and you had let me to talk you out of—"

"It's too late for that now." 

"Because you never listen to me!"

"Her Majesty has pardoned me. The affair is closed."

Treville shook his head, and started to pace. "You would have killed the _Queen_ of France."

Richelieu felt a headache built up. He would never be allowed to rest. Never. "There was no way to know her trip to the waters would finally bear fruit. I had to think of the greater plan—"

"You always say that!"

"Because it is the _truth_. It is the only way I can act. As the King's First Minister I can't wait and hope that things will just fall into place for us." 

Treville gritted his jaw, making Richelieu hold his breath.

"I kept telling myself you do these things for the crown," Treville began, "the state—"

" _I do_."

"You would have committed _regicide_!"

"The King and Queen are not the state."

Treville froze and Richelieu could feel his spine tingle. _One chance. One chance to save this_.

"I serve the crown," Richelieu explained, "not those who wear it."

Treville stared. His lips moved but no sound came out.

 _The lowest pits of hell were reserved for betrayers of their lords._ Richelieu knew for a fact that Treville was not a religious man, but evidentially he shared that sentiment.

"I can't believe you," Treville said once he regained his voice. But Richelieu could tell by the way Treville's eyes dulled that he did. He couldn't fight the sinking feeling in his heart that this realisation caused him.

"You've only just been pardoned," Treville pleaded. "Do you want to be arrested for treason so desperately?"

Richelieu swallowed. "Would you do it?"

Treville looked away, towards the door. He started moving.

"You're leaving?" Richelieu could not keep the shock from creeping into his voice. He had done everything Treville had asked. He had stayed away, let him make his own decisions for three months while suffering visions and nightmares alone in his palais before humiliating himself before the musketeers and the Queen. This could not be his reward. There had to be a mistake.

"I can't keep doing this, Armand!" Treville whirled around to face him. "Every time I think I understand how your mind works you do something like this."

"I don't intend to make a habit of regicide," Richelieu said. "Not in France."

He knew he should have kept his mouth shut when Treville's expression turned from fire to ice. "This is not just about the Queen anymore. This is about Savoy. This is about Labarge."

"The musketeers remain unharmed." Richelieu had not laid a hand on the musketeers who hounded his every step. The musketeers that Treville had been willing to risk his life for by fighting Labarge. The musketeers that Treville had chosen over Richelieu – again.

How could mere stupid children uproot decades of shared hardships? Exile, imprisonment, the death of a King— 

"You sent Milady after them!"

"The last time we discussed this, I told you I would defend myself." Only once the words had been spoken did Richelieu remember that this had been the argument that had driven Treville from his chambers three months ago. It did not change his conviction. "Did you expect me to die for them?" He would not. Not for the musketeers. They had made concessions in their relationship for the sake of the crown all their lives, but he had never put his guards or any of his agents over Treville's life.

"She kidnapped d'Artagnan's friend. An innocent woman!"

"I never ordered her to. I gave her up to you." Treville hung his head and Richelieu felt a lump of ice form in his guts. She had been part of the deal that made the musketeers let him go. He had done everything they had demanded. Richelieu could still feel the humiliation, and wondered if that hadn't been a greater prize to the musketeers than the life of his spy.

"Giving her up cost you nothing." 

"She was my best spy."

"She failed to arrange the Queen's murder, for which _you_ could have been executed. You said yourself she had become worthless to you. Athos did you a favour when he got rid of her."

"I would have done it myself. _I_ don't shy from doing what needs to be done. You know it better than anyone." Treville had supported his actions against Marie, against Savoy – as much as he pretended to be torn up about the decision. Richelieu intimately knew that he wasn't the only one who dreamt of hellfire. "How convenient it must be to have someone else to blame for giving the orders," he continued. "Do you believe it gives me pleasure to order the death of children?" The death of a spy weighed so little against that. 

"I know what you do!" Treville snapped. He took a deep breath. "I never gave _you_ up," he said more calmly, studying his feet. "To the Queen or the musketeers." When Treville looked up again, he looked defeated. "I watched my men build their case for three months, lay their trap." A trap that would have been unnecessary if Treville had acted against Richelieu directly – if he had employed all the means of intrigue that he so abhorred but nonetheless possessed. "Three months, giving your spy time to strike on your orders."

"I never asked anything like that of you." It was the truth, wasn't it? He had not asked Treville to put his safety over that of the musketeers.

A gust of frost washed away his earlier indignation. Treville had tried for three months to avoid choosing between Richelieu and the musketeers. It looked like he had made his choice now. After more than twenty years – after having had half their lives to figure each other out.

"Do you only now realise who I am?" It couldn't be. All this time he had been cast in the role of the ' _Grand Deceiver_ '… "Does your precious honour prick at your mind only now?"

Treville looked like he was about to protest before he thought better of it.

"They trusted me," he said and Richelieu felt a sigh build in his chest. 

"Is this another sermon on loyalty?" There was nothing Treville seemed to love more. Nothing and no one. His loyalty to the King was unbreakable. Richelieu had used to consider it charming, useful even. It had been one of the things that united them. Unfortunately, this loyalty expanded beyond Louis' title. While Richelieu had protected the Queen Mother's extended Regency in exchange for a seat on the council, Treville had taught her neglected child to fence. While Richelieu had failed to speak up against Marie when she excluded Louis from his own council, Treville had accompanied the slighted King on every hunt, and watched over him as he locked himself away to conspire with his rebellious favourites.

This loyalty extended to the Queen, to the musketeers, to anyone except for—

Richelieu exhaled slowly. He had not asked Treville to choose him over the musketeers. Yet, he realised, he had been foolish, so very foolish enough to want it.

_Anyone but—_

"You betrayed _me_."

Richelieu was so taken aback by Treville's anguished bark that for a long moment he could do nothing but stare. 

"I spoke to you about the investigation," Treville continued. "I _trusted_ you. All I did was give you an opportunity to cover your tracks and frame Mellendorf."

"No." This wasn't at all what Richelieu had done. He had never intended to use Treville like that. He hadn't asked to be involved in the investigation.

But Treville didn't appear to have heard him.

"If you had told me what the King had said before you sent your assassins this would never have happened."

"It was too late by then," Richelieu snapped. If it had been possible, he would have stayed away from the investigation, but how could the First Minister have justified that he wasn't interested in keeping up with the hunt for the Queen's attackers? 

"If I had told you what I had done I would have made you a co-conspirator," Richelieu continued. "Don't try to tell me you would have preferred that." Hadn't Treville told him he hated Richelieu's games? If anything, Richelieu had protected him.

For a moment Treville just looked at him, incredulous. "What do you think I am now?" He was getting louder again and Richelieu saw all hope of getting through to him evaporate. "Three months I have lied to my men – for you!"

Richelieu swallowed. What could he say? He had already tried to argue that he had never asked Treville to lie for him. His words had no effect. 

Richelieu couldn't remember Treville ever looking so defeated before. Even when they had fought about Savoy, about Luca – even when Treville had first confronted him about the Queen's assassins there had been such a strength to him. It appeared that Richelieu had finally exhausted it.

"We should go our separate ways," Treville said. "For a while."

_No._

The calm that had encompassed Richelieu cracked and broke away. "But the crisis has passed!" 

This was ridiculous, even considering Treville's foolish sense of honour. He had seemed to accept Richelieu's reasoning before. He'd come to him three months ago and tried to talk him into fleeing. Treville had tried to preserve Richelieu's life despite what he had done, and Richelieu had done nothing out of the ordinary since then, apart from protecting himself – against the Queen, against the musketeers – and yet…

Words escaped him. His customary life-saving wits had abandoned ship. He looked at the man before him and remembered the day they had sat together in his study after his confession. He didn't want that to be the last time they touched. He didn't want it to be the last time Treville regarded him with love.

Treville _loved_ him.

Or he had. Once.

"I don't believe what you believe," Treville said, his hand gripping his sword so tightly his knuckles turned white. "Louis is my King. Anne is my Queen. They are the only state I serve. And my musketeers are my men. I can't be their Captain and your—" Could he not even say it? 

"What am I to you?" Never had Richelieu felt as he did now. There was a pressure building up in his chest, rising up into his throat, and he knew that if he tried to speak more than a few words it would strangle him. 

Treville looked away. "I— I need time."

The light-headedness that took hold of Richelieu in that moment felt wrong. The place it came from felt wrong. As though the Duke of Savoy had just demanded a duel. As though the herald had just announced that Treville was going to fight Labarge.

In the decades that they had known each other, Treville had never asked for time. Not after the old King's death. Not after Belgard. Not even after Savoy. Each time he had either just shouted, or left. He had been angry at Richelieu then. This time Richelieu saw no anger. This time Treville needed _time_ and Richelieu was too old not to know what that meant. 

"I see." Richelieu swallowed, robbed of the only tool that had ever had defended him. There was no defence against Treville walking away from him, or against his sky-blue eyes that somehow remained dry and steely even as he walked out of the door. 

Richelieu nodded silently, his spine as stiff as cracking ice, and Treville walked out of his office without another look. Treville the steadfast. Treville the faithful. Treville, who had believed Richelieu's promises that he didn't act out of self-interest when it came to France. Treville, who had considered him a worthy partner even though he had known of his crimes. Treville, who somehow had lived with Richelieu allying himself with Marie for years, with betraying the musketeers to Savoy, and who had forgiven Richelieu's pettiness over Labarge.

All of that had worked out right in the end. But this was too much. Now Treville was leaving. Because of the musketeers.

The world reeled. Richelieu reached for the nearby desk, but he could not sit down. He could not falter now and drown in loathsome self-pity. He was the First Minister of France. He had been pardoned for attempted regicide because of how important he was. He would not lay down because he had been jilted. He still had a country to run.

His feet carried him out of the office on his own accord, down the halls, back towards the royal apartments, that centre of power he needed to hold against his enemies. He had to advise Louis on what gift to send to Mellendorf's county to not lose them as allies.

It was there, in the hall that separated the King's apartments from the Queen's, that Richelieu heard the last voice he meant to hear that day. The Queen was standing in a windowed alcove, bestowing soft words and even softer looks on the musketeer Aramis, who had protected her from Richelieu's assassin at the convent three months ago.

Three months ago she had been alone with a pair of musketeers, separated from her chaperoning ladies – Richelieu's spies. Three months were long enough for the royal physicians to detect the circumstances she was in. Three months ago, after years of coldness between King and Queen the newest hope at an heir had been conceived. 

Long moments passed before Richelieu was noticed. Long moments before the Queen's eyes widened and the musketeer flinched ever so slightly. And Richelieu felt a smile return to his face – a smile painted by the venom he had been swallowing for three long months.

The Queen had won a skirmish, but how easy would it be to make her loose the war? 

A Queen conspiring to put a musketeer's bastard on the throne. A musketeer! One of the men Treville had torn his heart out to protect.

Aramis would be executed – quartered. His dismembered body would be displayed in a public place and left to rot. 

The Queen would be ruined. She would be sent to a convent until the child was born and then the King, depending on his mood, would either give the poor thing into the care of the church as an orphan, or have Anne sent back to her family carrying her fresh disgrace in her arms.

Either way, it would mean war. Spain would take any insult to their King's sister as a pretext to invade, and Richelieu was still desperately working on arming the nation. 

Those among the French nobility opposing Louis XIII and his First Minister would investigate the Queen's absence from court, stopping at nothing from revealing the truth. They would use what they found to brand Louis as a weak King – and worse, a weak husband and _man_ – in the eyes of Europe. The same people who had pledged their arms to Marie de Medici so many months ago would rally under a new banner.

France would suffer for one moment of selfishness. All Richelieu had built in three decades would be torn down.

_No._

There _could_ be no revenge for Richelieu, no antidote for the venom he had been swallowing for three months. 

These past months, rather than an intermission, had been Richelieu's first taste of the future. Tomorrow he would return to dutifully serve his King same as today, living in dread of how a simple show of the King's displeasure could encourage the Queen to change her mind and to test what Louis XIII cared for more – his advisor, or the heir he had wished for all his life. 

Richelieu would return to joylessly discussing business with Treville as the Captain continued to smile for everyone but him. At the end of the day he would return to a palais populated by whispers, and go to bed alone, waiting for the ghost of a flayed corpse to keep him company.

The Queen and the musketeers would never pay reparations for all they had cost him. Love, above all.


End file.
